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AMONG    FRENCH    FOLK 


^W..«^.**\U4ruw  (V.VWV-. 


CHATEAU  DES  PAPES,  AVIGNON 

From  a  wood-block  by  Harold  Haven  Brown 


AMONG  FRENCH   FOLK 

A  BOOK  FOR  VAGABONDS 


By 
W.  BRANCH  JOHNSON 


"  O  why  do  you  wal\  through  the  fields  in  gloves 
Missing  so  much  and  so  much  F '' 

Frances  Cornford 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


^^ 


FIRST 

EDITION 
1922 
COPY- 
RIGHT 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTES 

PIG 

I. 

The  Beggar  of  the  Palace     . 

7 

II. 

:fiTIENNE 

.       13 

III. 

In  Arles 

.       29 

IV. 

Old  Acquaintance 

•       40 

V. 

Why  the  Train  was  Late 

.       49 

VI. 

Age  and  Youth 

.       55 

VII. 

The  Open  Road 

.       69 

VIII. 

Heart's  Desire 

80 

IX. 

The  Fiery  Cross 

.       88 

X. 

Marcus         

.       97 

XI. 

Thunderwater 

.     117 

XII. 

The  Innocence  of  Arcachon   . 

.     129 

xm. 

Wine  Water  and  Sand  . . 

139 

XIV. 

The  Fashion  of  Royan  . . 

158 

XV. 

Night-birds 

163 

XVI. 

Jean-Fban^ois       

185 

XVII. 

Onions         

203 

XVIII. 

Hollyhock-land 

212 

XIX. 

The  Peasants  and  the  Patntek 

227 

XX. 

In  the  City  op  Watersmeet    . . 

232 

XXI. 

The  Crime  of  Amblie  le  Ooic  . . 

244 

XXII. 

Kergosien  the  Butcher 

249 

562>^i}"i 


AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  THE  PALACE 

Spring  is  surely  the  most  abused  of  seasons, 
for  to  it  are  attributed,  directly  or  indirectly,  count- 
less lapses  from  commonsense.  I  am  instructed 
by  Helen — a  wife  whose  advice  is  often  worth 
following — to  blame  the  season  for  the  notes  which 
follow.  Personally  I  would  blame  the  employers 
who,  just  at  that  time,  took  it  into  their  heads  to 
dispense  with  my  services.  Had  it  not  been  for 
them  I  should  have  spent  the  summer  respectably 
employed  in  filling  the  columns  of  a  daily  newspaper. 

But  no.  Helen  remains  adamant  on  the  Spring 
theory.  She  is  romantic.  Her  only  sorrow,  I 
beheve,  is  that  she  is  not  her  namesake  of  Troy, 
whose  beauty  inspired  poets  and  embroiled  nations. 
That  would  have  been  so  exciting.  She  found  it 
exciting  even  to  be  out  of  a  job.  She  looked  up 
with  dancing  eyes. 

"  We'll  wander  through  France,"  she  enthused. 
"  Just  a  pack  on  our  backs  and  a  Springtime  smile 
for  everyone  we  see." 

I  have  yet  to  meet  the  person  who  will  stand  out 
against  Helen.  She  listens  to  no  reasoning :  did 
not  on  this  occasion.  It  was  the  Spring,  she  re- 
peated, the  season  of  the  Bohemian,  the  Wanderlust. 
The  Fates  favoured  her  plan. 

So,  on  a  Spring  night  we  found  ourselves  in  Paris 


8      ^y/?  3;  AMONG  FRENCH   FOLK 

and,  strolling  beside  the  Seine,  watched  in  the  dark- 
ness a  Parisian  declaration. 

"  Mais  c^est  vrai  que  tu  rrCaimes  ?  "  There  was 
anxiety  in  his  voice — ^a  tremolo  which  could  be  felt 
passionately  in  spite  of  the  low  tone  in  which  the 
question  was  put. 

A  moment's  silence  followed,  but  it  seemed  like 
an  age.  All  Paris  stood  still  in  expectation. 
Helen's  hand  sought  mine  in  the  darkness  and 
trembled.     So  much  happiness  rested  on  the  answer. 

"  Bien  sur.^''  The  reply  was  as  demure  as  you 
please;  and  there  was  an  answering  flash  to  the 
dark  flowing  river  in  the  girl's  eyes. 

'' Alors  .  .  ."  He  was  about  to  demonstrate 
his  afltection,  when  a  great  cat,  as  black  as  a  piece  of 
coal,  emerged  from  the  other  half  of  Paris  on  to  the 
parapet  over  the  river,  and  looking  directly  at  the 
couple,  sat  down  in  front  of  them  and  licked  its 
chops.  Helen  was  sure  it  winked,  but  I  cannot 
vouch  for  that. 

At  any  rate,  the  thread  was  broken.  The  girl 
laughed  and  enticed  pussy  on  her  lap,  where  she 
fondled  it  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  her  wooer, 
while  he,  poor  fellow,  sat  meekly  trying  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  both  parties. 

Did  ever  a  black  cat  make  so  inauspicious  an 
appearance  ?  Or  was  it  following  the  prescribed 
right  of  its  species  to  bring  luck  ?  Or  was  it  simply 
the  Spring  ? 

Only  after  long  months  did  we  chance  upon  the 
sequel. 

n 

There  are  people  who  have  the  knack  of  fitting 
into  their  smToundings — the  grande  dame  in  her 
drawing-room,  the  colonel  at  the  head  of  his  troops, 
the  old  beggar  outside  the  Palace  of  the  Popes  at 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  THE  PALACE     9 

Avignon.  To  both  of  us  he  will  remain  a 
living  personality  long  after  the  splendour  of  the 
Popes  has  been  relegated  to  the  hmbo  of  things 
forgotten.  We  turned  a  corner  and  he  appeared 
by  magic ;  and  at  once  the  huge  empty  shell  of  a 
building  by  whose  side  he  stood  became  aUve  and 
breathing.     He  was  its  history  incarnate. 

"  Look  !  "  exclaimed  Helen  rapturously. 

In  the  more  fortunate  days  of  the  Middle  Ages 
when  men  could  see  the  Kingdom  of  God  in  stones 
and  the  Spirit  of  God  in  mankind,  some  monastic 
painter  would  have  snapped  him  up  for  a  model  of 
John  the  Baptist,  and  have  turned  out  a  truer 
portrait  than  all  the  historical  reconstructions  put 
together.  He  would  have  emphasised,  ever  so 
sHghtly,  the  thick  iron-grey  hair  and  unkempt 
beard,  the  lean  drooping  moustache,  the  wrinkled 
broad  forehead  and  deep  alert  eyes  of  his  subject. 
Over  the  ragged  clothes  and  patched  boots,  through 
which  a  toe  protruded  here  and  there,  he  would 
have  bestowed  elaborate  care :  and  there  would 
have  been  a  hint  of  dignity  in  the  carriage  of  the 
figure,  albeit  the  shoulders  stooped  and  the  knees 
were  bent. 

Helen,  noting  all  this,  seized  my  hand  ecstatically. 

"  Perhaps  he's  a  king  or  a  prince  in  disguise,"  she 
whispered.  She  has  a  hankering  after  Bohemian 
royalty,  has  Helen. 

"  And  will  change  at  night  into  a  handsome  young 
man  to  wake  the  Princess  out  of  her  enchanted  sleep." 

"  Into  which  she  has  been  put  by  a  wicked  fairy, 
who  dwells  in  the  caverns  of  the  mountains  over 
there,"  she  romanced,  pointing  towards  the  Alps. 
"  Where  does  the  prince  go  to  find  her  ?  " 

"  To  a  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  la  Republique,"  I 
suggested,  "where  she  sleeps  so  soundly  that  not 
even  the  cafe  orchestras  or  the  trams  can  wake  her. 
Lucky  princess  !  " 


10  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Helen  pouted  at  this  and  was  about  to  walk  away, 
but  I  stopped  her. 

"  Suppose  the  old  beggar-man  with  the  face  of  a 
saint  were  the  spirit  of  one  of  the  early  Popes  doing 
penance  for  the  sins  of  his  successors  ?  The  early 
Popes,  you  know,  were  poor  men,  and  it  was  after 
they  became  powerful  and  rich  that  their  influence 
declined.'* 

"And  so  he  stops  outside  this  palace — ^wliich  is 
more  like  a  fortress  than  a  palace — "  commented 
Helen,  "  and  begs  not  for  alms,  but  for  the  for- 
giveness of  all  who  pass  by." 

"  What  a  punishment !  " 

"  He  has  been  here  for  centuries  and  will  be  here 
for  still  more  centuries,  because  he  has  to  ask  for- 
giveness of  so  many  injured  people." 

"  Gently,  gently,"  I  put  in  at  a  moment  when 
Helen's  fertile  imagination  appeared  to  be  slacken- 
ing. "  After  all,  the  sin  of  the  Papacy  was  the  sin 
of  all  the  rest  of  us  ;  you  can't  put  on  to  its  shoulders 
everything  that's  wrong  with  the  world." 

"  No,"  assented  Helen.  "  If  you  go  round  kings' 
palaces  you  will  find  their  spirits,  too,  begging  for 
mercy.  It's  just  greed  I  was  meaning — agreed  of 
power  and  money." 

"  At  any  rate,"  I  continued,  indicating  the  beg- 
gar, "  that  poor  chap  looks  like  being  here  to  all 
eternity.     Nobody  takes  any  notice  of  him." 

"  Do  you  expect  them  to  ?  "  asked  Helen,  with  a 
little  toss  of  the  head.  *'  You've  even  forgotten 
what  century  you're  living  in." 

"  Perhaps  he  isn't  a  Pope  after  all,"  I  said,  *'  nor 
a  prince  nor  a  king  nor  anything  of  that  sort.  Per- 
haps he's  just  a  beggar." 

'*  Let's  come  and  ask  him."  Helen  made  a  bee- 
line  approach. 

"  Pierre  Oerin  a  voire  service,  Madame,^^  I  heard 
him  say.     You  know  the  noise  that  frogs  make  at 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  THE  PALACE    11 

night  when  they  croak  their  message  to  the  stars  ? 
His  voice  was  Hke  that. 

"  Why  do  you  beg  for  alms  here  ?  "  asked  Helen  in 
that  direct  manner  of  hers,  which  I  have  known 
frighten  old  maiden  ladies  out  of  their  wits. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  feel  myself  a  part  of  the  old  build- 
ing." 

"  Then  you  are  a  Pope  after  all !  "  Helen  clapped 
her  hands  with  delight. 

"  Moi  un  Pape,  par  exemple  I "  The  old  man 
croaked  loudly,  and  shook  his  mane  at  the  joke. 
"  But  no,  Madame.  When  I  was  young — ^that 
would  be  .  .  .  well,  it  would  frighten  you  to  know 
how  long  ago  that  was — ^I  served  my  term  in  the 
Army  in  this  palace.     It  was  a  barracks  then." 

"  A  fine  place  to  be  stationed  in,"  I  suggested. 

"  It  is  better  than  Algeria,"  he  replied,  "  but 
otherwise  .  .  .  ; "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if 
to  say  that  all  places  are  much  of  a  muchness  when 
one  is  in  the  Army.  "  I  was  young,  and  nothing 
mattered  except  to  enjoy  myself.  II  y  avail  des 
belles  filles  id,  M^sieu,  vous  compreni{ez.  Now,  when 
I  am  a  squeezed  lemon,  I  do  not  care  to  move.  I 
shall  stay  here  and  die  in  a  ditch.  Avignon  be- 
longs to  me  and  I  to  it." 

"  You  must  have  many  memories  of  the  palace 
to  think  over  as  you  stand  here  day  after  day." 
Helen's  voice  was  filled  with  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  but  these  blank  walls  .  .  .  they  frighten 
me  still.  They  used  to  frighten  me  when  I  was 
stationed  here — they  were  so  very  white  and  so 
very  blank.  They  were  more  like  a  prison  than  the 
prison  itself — and  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about. 
Dame,  oui,  I  used  to  dream  about  them,  and  even 
when  I  was  on  furlough  they  used  to  follow  me  to 
my  home.  One  day  I  coiild  stand  it  no  longer. 
I  ran  away — deserted — ^hid  my  uniform  in  a  ditch, 
and  stole  other  clothes.     For  a  few  days  I  was  a 


n  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

free  man ;  then  I  was  brought  back — first  to  this 
prison,  then  to  the  other.  It  was  a  reHef  to  be 
moved,  this  the  first  of  many  visits." 

Helen's  eyes  beamed  approval.  The  ribbon  of 
the  Croix  de  Guerre  on  his  breast  would  by  com- 
parison have  left  her  cold. 

"  You  can  imagine  the  rest  of  the  story ;  there 
was  nothing  else  left  for  a  jail-bird.  At  one  time  I 
grew  rich  on  thefts — I  could  keep  myself  without 
begging  in  addition." 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  work  honestly  ?  " 
asked  Helen. 

"  That  I  forget.  And,  anyhow,  it  is  too  late  now. 
It  is  easier  to  mumble  prayers  and  more  profitable  " 
("  with  the  women,  you  know,"  he  added  to  me  in  an 
aside).     "  And  one  can  think  in  between  whiles." 

"  Of  what  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  old  scallywag's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Of  the  thefts  one  might  have  committed,"  he 
said. 

Helen  glanced  at  me. 

"  Did  I  not  say  he  was  the  epitome  of  the 
Palace  ?  "  she  asked. 

But  we  should  not  have  believed,  had  anyone 
told  us,  that  we  were  to  give  him  opportunity  for 
further  thought. 


II 

ETIBNNB 


This  is  to  introduce  the  family  Pepino  of  the  Bou- 
langerie  du  Jesus. 

There  was  Hippolyte,  the  father,  who  used  to 
bake  his  bread  to  the  accompaniment  of  ribald 
choruses  sung  sotto  voce,  Zenobie,  his  buxom  wife, 
Stephanie,  assistant  to  a  fashionable  milliner, 
Andre,  the  externe  at  the  Lycee,  on  whom  the 
family  hope  centred,  and  Michel,  aged  about  three. 
One  might  add  also  Mattieu  Marc  Luc  Jean,  the 
most  venerable  creature  of  the  establishment,  a  cat. 

This  Biblical  appellation  had  been  flippantly 
bestowed  upon  the  beast  by  Madame  Pepino  on 
the  very  day  when  it  had  first  strayed  into  the  little 
bakehouse,  its  one  eye  cocked,  its  mangy  tail  quiver- 
ing with  emotion,  and  had  refused  to  budge.  There 
was  something  so  respectful  in  its  appearance,  she 
said,  and  it  reposed  such  trust  in  the  charity  of  the 
Boulangerie  du  Jesus  that  she  could  not  help  giving 
it  a  nice  name.  It  usually,  however,  answered 
to  Escroc,  which  being  interpreted,  means  rogue 
or  swindler. 

It  was,  in  some  ways,  the  tie  which  bound  all 
members  of  the  Pepino  family  together.  Hip- 
polyte, who  resembled  a  cherub  with  a  drooping 
moustache,  used  to  "  shoo  "  it  away  on  the  slightest 
provocation  ;  it  always  made  him  feel,  he  complained, 
as  if  he  ought  to  confess  to  it,  and  he  could  not  think 


14  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

what  excuse  he  would  give  to  M.  le  Cure  if  one  day- 
he  were  to  fall  into  the  temptation ;  Satan  took  many 
strange  forms.  Whereupon  Stephanie's  eyes  would 
moisten  as  she  scolded  her  father  for  saying  such 
wicked  things  about  the  creatures  of  the  bon  Dieu. 
Andre  looked  up  from  his  lessons  to  take  his  father's 
part  against  Stephanie,  but  not  against  the  cat,  and 
Michel,  with  little  theology,  but  a  sure  instinct  for 
comfort,  nestled  meanwhile  against  Escroc  and 
went  warmly  to  sleep.  The  triangular  wrangle 
would  continue  in  a  bantering  spirit  for  some  time, 
when  enter  Madame  : 

"  Allons,  mes  enfantSy  la  soupe  est  serviey 

One  needed  good  hot  soup  at  the  Boulangerie  du 
Jesus,  for  it  was  situated  in  a  part  of  Nice  where 
the  sun  and  Society  seldom  penetrate — ^in  the 
crowded  quarter  at  the  foot  of  the  Castle  rock. 
Sometimes  at  midday  a  long  straight  shaft  of  Hght 
gleamed  down  on  to  the  pavement  for  a  few  minutes, 
but  the  height  of  the  houses  soon  shut  it  out  again, 
and  it  was  only  the  narrowness  of  the  unhealthy 
alley  that  made  it  retain  any  warmth.  Yet  in 
the  evenings,  when  one  could  stroll  along  the  Pro- 
menade des  Anglais  in  comfort,  it  was  chilly  in  these 
stone-built  byways.  One  felt  it  specially  when 
work  drove  one  abroad  in  the  midday  sun,  to 
return  hither  at  night.  Hot  soup  made  the  good 
blood  flow  again ;  so  said  Stephanie  when  she 
came  back  tired  from  the  milliner's  in  the  Avenue 
de  la  Victoire. 

"  These  places  are  as  cold  as  les  hivernantes,^^  she 
said  one  day  as  she  entered  the  warmer  bakery. 
"  They  seldom  reach  much  above  freezing  point." 

As  the  season  passed,  however,  the  custom  of 
hot  evening  soup  slackened.  Pepino's  bakehouse 
alone  made  more  than  a  slight  difference  to  the 
temperature :  soon  we  passed  evenings  sitting  in 
the  roadway  chatting  casually  with  acquaintances 


ETIElSiNE  15 

at  opposite  windows  or  further  along  the  street, 
while  Hippolyte,  his  brow  covered  with  honest 
sweat,  rushed  out  occasionally  to  give  us  the  bene- 
fit of  some  bon  mot  he  had  conceived  at  the  oven 
door.     As  a  humorist  he  fancied  himself. 

He  used  to  joke  even  about  the  name  of  his 
bakery. 

"  Cette  Boulangerie  du  Jesus,^^  he  exclaimed.  "  It 
is  the  miracle  of  the  loaves.  They  come  and  come  ; 
there  is  no  ending  to  them.  They  feed  the  multi- 
tude. The  fishes  I  leave  to  the  fishermen  for  what 
they  are  worth.  It  is  easier  to  catch  fish  in  the  Baie 
des  Anges  than  to  make  loaves  in  the  Boulangerie 
du  Jesus." 

One  day  he  brought  out  to  us  a  loaf  which, 
through  some  mischance,  had  been  baked  hard 
through  and  through.  He  dashed  it  on  to  the 
roadway,  where  it  lay  solid  and  imscathed. 

''On  salt  hien  que  Jesus  etait  charjpentier,^y  he 
cried,  and  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  It  was  a 
joke  on  which  he  harped  for  several  days. 

Helen  once  asked  him  why  he  had  chosen  such  a 
name  for  his  shop. 

"  Eh  bien,^^  he  repUed.  "  One  must  have  bread, 
one  must  have  religion  ;  the  two  go  hand  in  hand 
in  the  lives  of  all  men.  I  could  have  called  my  shop 
the  Boulangerie  de  Isaie,  de  Moise,  d'Ezechiel,  but 
those  big  names  would  have  frightened  away  cus- 
tomers. Besides,  just  at  that  time  le  p'tit  Andrd 
arrived :  I  looked  at  him  when  he  was  ever  so 
tiny  and  said  to  myself,  '  Le  pHit  Jesus,  It  shall  be 
Your  bakehouse  as  a  thanksgiving.'  It  was  an 
inspiration,  n'est-ce  pas,  madame  ?  " 

The  inspiration  had  been  justified.  Le  pHit 
Andre  was  doing  well ;  he  was  to  become  a  great 
man.  He  had  worked  his  way  to  the  Lycee  by 
sheer  grit  and  was  already  nearly  the  top  of  his 
class — ^would  soon  be  quite  there.     He  was  later 


16  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

to  go  to  the  University,  to  travel,  to  do  all  those 
things  which  Hippolyte  himself  had  been  unable 
to  do.  Hippolyte  had  brought  up  the  rest  of  his 
family  to  that  idea — ^that  Andre,  le  sage,  the  bright, 
hard-working  eldest  son,  was  to  be  the  first  to 
benefit. 

The  bakehouse,  too,  had  proved  successful  under 
Pepino's  management,  and  brought  in  a  return 
whiich,  though  not  princely,  was  sufficient  for  the 
family's  simple  needs.  Now  that  Stephanie  was 
earning  her  own  living,  the  old  stocking  hidden 
away  in  a  secret  cupboard  began  to  bulge  with 
money  put  by. 

In  a  moment  of  extreme  confidence,  Madame 
showed  it  to  Helen. 

"  For  Andre,"  she  said  proudly. 

"  But  what  about  Michel  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

"  Michel  will  not  do  anything  in  the  world." 
Madame's  pride  had  been  unconsciously  pricked  by 
the  question.  "  We  shall  keep  him  at  home — you 
see,  he  needs  looking  after.  He  has  never  been 
young ;  I  am  afraid  he  is  born  a  good-for-nothing, 
like  .  .  .  like  .  .  .  one  day  I  will  tell  you.'' 

Thus  in  the  same  cupboard  as  the  family  hope, 
did  we  come  across  the  family  skeleton. 


II 

Now  the  best  family  skeletons  are  dead  and  dry 
bones  held  together  by  the  wires  of  traditional 
scandal,  which  strengthens  with  each  succeeding 
generation.  But  the  family  skeleton  of  the  Pepinos 
had  characteristics  all  its  own.  Only  a  few  days 
after  Madame's  partial  confession  to  Helen  it  strode 
boldly  into  the  Boulangerie. 

Madame  was  serving  customers  at  the  moment 
and  did  not  notice  the  entrance  of  the  strange 
figure.     She   had   just   handed   over   a   couple   of 


ETIENNE  17 

metre-long  loaves  to  a  woman  and  had  turned 
mechanically  to  the  newcomer. 

"  M'sieu  desire  ?  " 

Then  she  looked  up. 

"  Etienne  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  and  there  appeared 
in  her  kindly  face  a  look  so  hard,  so  uncompro- 
mising, that  she  ceased  almost  to  be  Zenobie 
Pepino  at  all. 

"  Que  veux'tu  ?  "  she  said.  Her  voice  sounded 
like  a  file. 

The  newcomer,  a  shabbily-dressed,  bearded  giant, 
whose  eyes  seemed  to  spend  most  of  their  time  look- 
ing into  another  world,  smiled. 

''  Hippoljrte,"  he  answered. 

Hippolyte  was  soon  brought  from  the  room  in 
which  he  was  washing  as  the  preHminary  to  an 
evening's  outing.  Madame,  meanwhile,  drew  us 
aside,  so  that  the  two  men  could  talk  alone  ;  a 
heated  discussion  was  soon  in  progress,  in  which 
the  usually  mild  Hippolyte  was  the  obvious 
aggressor. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  this,"  said  Madame  simply.  "  I 
would  not  have  had  it  happen  for  worlds.  He  is 
Hippolyte' s  cousin,  a  professional  vagabond,  a 
fait-neant,  I  thought  we  had  got  rid  of  him  for 
good  and  all."  The  poor  soul  was  on  the  verge  of 
tears. 

At  this  moment  Andre,  with  Michel  trotting 
behind  him,  entered  the  shop. 

"  Andre,  take  him  away,"  she  exclaimed  hur- 
riedly, pointing  to  the  little  one.  But  Etienne  had 
been  quick  to  see  Michel  and,  before  any  of  them 
had  time  to  interfere,  he  swung  him  up  on  to  his 
shoulder. 

"  My  successor  in  vagabondage,  the  hope  of 
Pepino  aine  /  "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  rang  round 
the  little  bakery  and  set  the  loaves  a-clattering 
on    the  shelves.     "  Do  you  not  know  your  Cousin 


18  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Etienne,  mon  Michel  ?  Has  not  your  mamma 
dinned  sufficient  warnings  into  your  infantile  ears  ? 
And  are  you  not  going  now  to  profit  by  her  expe- 
rience to  spit  in  his  face  ?  " 

"  Maman  dit  .  .  ."  commenced  Michel. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  what  your  Maman  has  told 
you — she  has  told  me  the  same  many  times.  Nom 
de  nom,  we  have  said  things  to  each  other,  you  and 
I,  Zenobie  !  " 

"  Are  you  going  now  you  have  seen  him  ?  "  in- 
terposed Hippoljrte  sternly. 

"  Yes,  I  will  not  disgrace  your  family  pride  be- 
fore your  visitors,"  replied  the  giant,  indicating 
Helen  and  myself.  He  released  Michel  (who  slipped 
behind  his  mother's  skirts  from  whence  he  peeped 
shyly  at  his  cousin)  and  turned  full  on  Hippolyte. 

"  There  is  more  family  affection  in  me  than  you 
give  me  credit  for,"  he  said,  "  since  I  actually 
ached  to  catch  one  more  glimpse  of  le  pHiL  In  a 
few  days  I  leave  this  cursed  town  of  bat-eyed 
moneybags  and  take  to  the  open  country  again. 
If  you  had  any  soul  beyond  your  loaves  you  would 
come  with  me.  What,  in  the  sacred  name  of  dough, 
keeps  you  here  ?  " 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  turned  to  us 
and  continued  in  excellent  English, 

"  I  beg  of  you,  Sir  and  Madame,  to  put  this 
incident  from  your  minds.  You  are  lodging  with 
an  eminently  respectable  family  and  the  sight  of 
their  outcast  members,  however  happy  these  may 
be,  cannot  be  entirely  pleasant.  But  because  I 
love  Michel  here  as  I  would  my  own  child,  I  must 
come  back  to  him  before  the  Wanderlust  over- 
takes me." 

With  a  sweeping  gesture  of  his  broad-brimmed 
hat,  he  made  a  bow,  half  ironical,  to  the  embar- 
rassed company. 

"  Au  revoir,  mes  amis,^  he  said,  and  was  gone. 


ETIENNE  19 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  spent  m  receiving  the 
tearful  apologies  of  the  Pepinos. 

We  came  across  Etienne  some  days  later.  He 
was  sitting  under  the  exiguous  shade  of  a  palm 
tree  on  the  Promenade  des  Anglais.  Great  hotels 
gleamed  white  behind  him,  the  Mediterranean 
flashed  its  purples  and  blues  in  front,  the  prom- 
enade was  crowded  with  the  colour  of  passing 
visitors,  and  in  the  scene  he  sat  like  a  blackbeetle 
in  a  kaleidoscope. 

"  So  you  have  not  yet  left  Nice  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  No,"  he  replied  somewhat  moodily.  "  The 
cursed  hotels  still  keep  me  here,  but  in  a  few  days  I 
shall  have  gone." 

Neither  of  us  could  imagine  the  connection 
between  this  scarecrow  and  the  luxury  palaces 
behind  him.     Helen  put  him  the  question. 

"  A  misguided  parent  taught  me  the  guitar," 
he  answered,  "  and  when  one  is  young  one's 
pleasantest  form  of  amusement  is  to  annoy  other 
people.  I,  Madame,  am  a  siffleur  a  deux  voix^  paid 
for  annoying  by  those  whom  I  annoy,  and  also 
for  strumming  on  a  guitar  with  red,  white  and  blue 
ribbons  attached  to  it.  It  may  not  have  struck 
you,"  he  continued  contemptuously,  "  that  red, 
white  and  blue — especially  if  the  blue  is  so  vague 
that  it  may  be  taken  for  any  colour — stands  for 
several  nations,  and  visitors  here  like  to  feel 
patriotic.  In  addition,  I  have  learned  one  English 
song,  one  American,  one  Italian  and — I  have 
almost  forgotten  the  German ;  I  must  re-learn  it.  I 
also  whistle  some  popular  operatic  selections  which 
people  think  themselves  musical  for  recognising. 
I  am  well  known  in  the  dining-rooms  of  all  the 
hotels.  In  short,  I  am  one  of  the  sights  of  the  C^^e 
d'^2itr." 

He  stuck  out  his  long  legs  as  he  said  this,  nearly 
tripping    up    a    fashionably-dressed    woman.     She 


20  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

looked  haughtily  at  him  for  a  second  and  then, 
with  a  gleam  of  recognition,  smiled  distantly  and 
vaguely  in  his  direction.  Etienne  leapt  to  his 
feet  with  an  extravagant  bow. 

"  Part  of  my  stock  in  trade,"  he  said  apologeti- 
cally as  he  sat  down  again. 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  sighed. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  mean  ?  " 

"  You  have  heard  about  me  from  my  kind  rela- 
tions whose  souls  are  those  of  rats  and  mice.  They 
despise  me  for  what  I  am  ;  I  despise  them  for  what 
they  are  not.     Which  do  you  choose  ?  " 

"  Is  a  choice  necessary  ?  "  asked  Helen.  "  Are 
you  not,  both  of  you,  good  and  bad  ?  " 

"  I  see  how  it  is  with  you,"  he  snapped,  with  a 
sudden  accession  of  wrath.  "  You  want  to  effect 
a  reconciliation.  That  is  useless,  Madame,  you 
will  only  miss  the  friendship  of  both  of  us.  You 
cannot  mix  olive  oil  with  the  Mediterranean.  You 
cannot  put  a  candle  to  the  sun.  I  whistle  my  way 
along  this  damned  coast  and  into  the  pockets  of 
mincing  dolls,  not  because  I  like  it,  but  because  I 
must  accumulate  enough  righteous  indignation 
diu*ing  the  winter  to  give  me  energy  for  the  sum- 
mer— energy  to  get  away  from  this  place.  I  will 
not  spend  my  life  sweating  into  loaves  of  bad  flour 
— earning  an  honest  living,  as  you  call  it.  I  prefer 
the  honesty  of  the  Mediterranean  and  the  sunlight 
in  refusing  to  follow  the  time-honoured  methods 
of  olive  oil  and  candles. 

"  In  a  few  days,"  he  cried,  "  I  shake  the  dust  of 
respectability  from  my  feet.  I  go  to  Marseilles, 
to  Nimes,  ri'importe  ou,  I  have  taken  a  liking  to 
you,  my  children.  Will  you  forsake  my  respectable 
relations  while  you  are  still  in  their  good  books, 
say  nothing  as  to  your  future  movements,  and 
come  with  me  ?     I  have  had  a  good  season,  and  we 


ETIENNE  21 

/ 

will  travel  luxuriously.  My  offer  is  open  until  to- 
morrow.    I  shall  be  on  this  seat." 

He  rose,  and  with  another  fantastic  bow,  walked 
in  long  strides  towards  the  town. 

True  to  his  word,  he  was  awaiting  us  next  day. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  inquired  casually. 

"  We  will  come,"  I  answered. 

^' Bon,  Tuesday  next  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  before  it  gets  hot." 

\ 

Between  Nice,  the  Brighton  of  the  Riviera,  and  I 
Monte  Carlo,  lies  the  little  resort  of  BeauHeu,  full  i 
of  fashionable  villas,  and  backed  by  steep  rocky 
heights  whose  lower  slopes  are  stippled  by  the 
rainbow  colours  of  bright  creepers.  It  hes  retired 
in  a  narrow  bay,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a  toy  harbour 
where  toy  yachts  seem  to  play  at  sailing  on  the 
great  Mediterranean,  so  diminutive  do  they  look 
between  the  sea  and  the  mountains.  As  if  to  add 
the  requisite  spice  of  danger  to  the  games  of  the 
little  yachtsmen,  bold  white  rocks  jut  at  all  angles 
from  the  water,  and  the  bed  of  the  bay  is  so  shallow 
that  it  appears  possible  to  wade  to  the  farthest  of 
these  rocks — to  which  tiny  ripples  of  white  foam 
cling  constantly — ^without  wetting  more  than  the 
knees.  Beaulieu,  in  short,  is  the  kind  of  place 
which  makes  one  feel  very  grown-up  and  important 
in  comparison  with  the  playthings  around,  and  very 
small  and  insignificant  when  one's  eyes  follow  the 
towering  mountains  to  their  full  height,  and  the 
narrow  strip  of  Mediterranean  to  its  horizon. 

This  little  spot  Helen  and  I  had  several  times 
visited  solely  to  gaze  into  a  few  square  yards  of 
water.  Those  square  yards  were  to  us  a  magic 
jewelled  carpet  on  which  to  travel  even  as  far  as 
the  great  Kingdom  of  Nowhere  and  to  explore 
its  wonders.     They  contained  such  a  concentration 


22  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

of  greens,  blues,  purples  and  whites,  such  dazzling 
light  and  such  profound  gloom,  such  purity,  such 
laughter  and  happiness  and  such  rich  melancholy, 
that  whatever  our  mood,  we  could  call  up  from 
them  just  those  parts  of  Nowhere  in  which  it 
pleased  us  most  to  travel. 

On  the  day  before  our  departure  from  Nice 
with  Etienne,  we  made  our  final  pilgrimage.  The 
tram  along  the  lower  Corniche  took  us  to  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  spot ;  we  dropped  hazardously 
over  a  wall ;  and  in  a  moment  traffic,  villas,  harbour, 
everything  except  the  immediate  seashore  wa« 
completely  cut  off. 

"  Whither  away  ?  "  I  inquired. 

'*  That's  just  the  question,"  replied  Helen. 

"What  part  of  Nowhere  do  you  want  to  visit 
to-day  ?  " 

Helen  did  not  answer  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  said : 

"  Does  it  matter  ?  Isn't  every  part  beautiful  ?  " 
— and  then  after  a  further  pause  : 

"  I  should  like  to  know  where  we're  going  with 
Etienne." 

"Step — ^metaphorically  speaking,  of  course — on 
to  this  jewelled  carpet  of  sea,  and  it'll  tell  you." 

Helen  gazed  at  it  for  a  long  time — so  long  that  I 
imagined  she  had  fallen  asleep — before  she  spoke 
again. 

"  Boy,  I'm  not  certain  of  Etienne.  He's  too 
plausible." 

"  Is  that  what  the  sea  tells  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Then  I  think  it's  got  a  little  of  the  Midi  tem- 
perament itself  ;  it  exaggerates.  Etienne's  all  right. 
Even  Hippolyte  gets  picturesque  sometimes,  you 
know,  when  he  wants  you  to  do  things  for  him. 
You've  got  to  get  accustomed  to  speaking  in  the 
superlative." 


ETIENNE  23 

Helen  gave  an  unconvinced  grunt.  There  was 
another  silence. 

"Do  you  really  think  the  sea  exaggerates?" 
she  asked  suddenly. 

"How?" 

"  Distorts.  That  white  oval  pebble  down  there 
— the  one  next  the  patch  of  deep  blue — ^is  really 
almost  square.  But  the  water  does  away  with 
the  hard  corners  of  it  and  makes  it  never-ending." 

"  Immortal,"  I  suggested. 

"  That's  it.  It  goes  on  for  ever  being  an  oval 
patch  of  white  light  instead  of  a  grey  square. 
That's  exaggeration." 

"  So's  everything,"  I  retorted.  "  Put  a  litre  of 
the  Mediterranean  into  a  bottle  and  it's  just  colour- 
less water,  and  sunlight,  you  know,  is  simply 
nothing  at  all.  But  when  you  put  them  all  to- 
gether one  exaggerates  the  other,  and  the  whole 
effect  is  of  amazing  richness " 

"  And  being  rich  is  nothing  more  than  an  exag- 
geration of  someone  or  something  else's  poverty," 
interposed  Helen. 

"  True  for  you.  But  you  don't  think  that  every- 
one should  be  content  to  remain  as  he  is  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not," 

"Well  then,  the  sort  of  exaggeration  that  this 
bit  of  sea  indulges  in  is  ambition.  It  tries  to  make 
itself  beautiful  by  adorning  everything  around 
it." 

"  '  Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  put  away  ambition,'  " 
quoted  Helen  tritely. 

"  And  put  away  that  Kingdom  of  Nowhere  of 
yours,"  I  replied.  "  What  is  that  little  fancy  but 
ambition  ?  " 

"  It's  a  sort  of  ideal,"  she  corrected. 

"  And  you're  ambitious  to  reach  it,  even  though 
you  know  you  can't.  If  not,  it's  a  jolly  poor  sort 
of  ideal.     No,  young  woman,  stop  bothering  about 


24  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

the  exaggerations  of  the  sea  and  the  eccentricities 
of  Etienne — ^you  will  fathom  neither." 

The  hills  behind  BeauHeu  are  so  steep  that  at  a 
comparatively  early  hour  the  sun  sinks  behind 
them.  It  did  so  now,  and  as  it  suddenly  dis- 
appeared Hke  the  blowing  out  of  a  lamp,  the 
jewels  of  the  sea — ^grey  pebbles  and  the  like — were 
extinguished  with  it.  There  remained  an  expanse 
of  indigo  and  purple ;  the  mountain  sides  were 
plum-colour  in  shadow  and  shimmering  cool  gold 
where  the  Ught  still  clung  affectionately  to  them. 

"  All  exaggeration,"  I  told  Helen. 

"  But  the  jewelled  carpet  which  takes  you  to  the 
Kingdom  of  Nowhere  is  true." 

"  It  fades  when  the  sun  sinks." 

"  It  won't  fade  in  my  memory.  The  sun  will 
always  be  full  on  it." 

"  And  Etienne  ?  " 

"Well,  perhaps  the  sun  did  go  behind  a  cloud 
for  the  moment,"  admitted  Helen. 

IV 

By  easy  stages  we  made  for  Marseilles,  sometimes 
traveUing  in  the  slowest  of  slow  trains  omnihuSy 
sometimes  walking  across  the  red,  white  and  green 
countryside,  stumbling  uphill  and  down,  or  crossing 
seemingly  interminable  amphitheatres  of  olive 
trees.  Etienne,  at  these  times,  proved  himself  a 
capital  companion,  always  ready  with  a  helping 
word,  an  old  friend  who  would  put  us  up  for  the 
night,  a  bottle,  mysteriously  hidden  in  his  sack,  of 
good  thirst-quenching  wine,  or  a  hunch  of  bread  and 
sausage.  When  conversation  grew  wearisome,  he 
would  squat  beneath  a  convenient  tree  or  wall,  and 
accompany  himself  on  his  guitar  to  old  Provengal 
songs,  which  needed  to  be  translated  into  Parisian 
French  before  we  could  understand  a  word  of  them. 
One  day  it  rained  heavily  ;  Etienne  would  not  for 


ETIENNE  25 

a  moment  consent  to  budging  from  the  tiny  farm 
in  which  we  had  spent  the  night,  but  passed  the 
entire  day  between  our  lodgings,  where  he  practised 
his  whisthng,  and  the  nearest  bar — a  villainous- 
looking  little  tavern  calling  itself  the  Bar-Londres 
— ^where  he  accumulated  moisture  for  further 
efforts. 

In  the  afternoon  he  returned  in  tremendous  anger. 

"  I  have  seen  it,"  he  cried — "  the  juggernaut 
that  carries  damned  souls  to  hell,  driven  by  the 
devils  that  drove  the  Gadarene  swine  down  the 
steep  place  and  filled  by  twenty-odd  lynx-eyed 
moles." 

It  was  just  his  manner  of  informing  us  that  he  had 
seen  a  char-a-banc.    - 

"  Come  away,"  he  cried,  waving  his  arms  violently. 
"  Come  away  before  the  soul  of  Mammon  enters 
into  you,  before  you  are  willing  to  pay  for  desecra- 
ting the  country  and  turning  honest.  God-fearing 
men  and  women  into  snobs  and  paupers.  Come 
away,  I  say !  I  will  not  stop  in  this  place  another 
hour." 

Nothing  would  pacify  him,  but  that  we  should 
immediately  pack  up  our  traps  and  go  with  him. 

"  I  will  not  breathe  the  same  air  as  those  people," 
he  snorted  as  he  stumped  along  the  road.  And  then 
turning  back,  he  spat  after  another  car  which  had 
just  passed.  "  Do  you  know  the  story  of  the 
blind  man  who  thought  he  could  see  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  He  commenced  to  run,  and  because  people  were 
kind  enough  not  to  put  any  obstacle  in  his  way,  he 
went  on  running,  and  became  more  and  more  sure 
he  could  see.  Then  he  was  certain  of  it.  Finally, 
he  tripped  over  one  of  his  own  feet." 

"  There's  a  moral  to  it,"  quizzed  Helen. 

"  And  that  is,"  continued  Etienne  innocently, 
"  that  people  in  those  cars  think  they   see   things 


26  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

because  nothing  is  put  in  their  way.  The  only 
true  method  of  seeing  rocks  is  to  experience  rocks 
— to  cut  your  feet  on  them  if  necessary.  The  only 
way  of  seeing  those  Httle  villages  perched  upon  the 
hilltops  like  the  knobs  on  halma  men  is  to  toil  up 
the  side  of  the  halma  man.  Then  you'll  know 
what  you're  seeing — you'll  have  the  rocks  and  the 
villages  firmly  fixed  in  your  memory.  But  to  run 
about  this  country — or  any  country — in  a  motor- 
car, and  then  to  imagine  you've  seen  it  is  simply 
the  quintessence  of  tom-foolery,  like  the  blind  man 
running.  And  Uke  him,  tourists  are  their  own 
stumbHng-blocks." 

*'  Why  ?  "  asked  Helen,  for  Etienne  paused  as 
if  he  had  finished  his  sermon. 

"  Because  they  haven't  enough  humour  to  avoid 
extremities,"  he  rephed  sententiously. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  resumed  impatiently  : 

"  We  aren't  getting  out  of  this  country  fast 
enough.     We  shall  be  quicker  by  train." 

Only  when  we  had  already  taken  tickets  did  we 
discover  a  four-hours'  wait  in  store  for  us. 

"  Why  are  you  in  such  a  confounded  hurry  to 
be  gone  from  here,"  I  asked,  after  every  other 
conversational  resource  had  failed  to  restore  his 
temper,  '*  when  you  know  perfectly  well  you  will 
come  back  next  season  ?  " 

"  By  the  end  of  the  summer  my  moral  fibre  will 
have  slackened.  Even  the  best  engines  have  to 
get  up  steam  and  the  strongest  metal  becomes 
tired.     Besides,  a  man  must  live." 

*'  Je  rCen  vois  pas  la  necessiUy^  said  Helen,  "  if 
the  method  goes  so  strongly  against  the  grain." 

"  I  have  already  perceived,  Madame,"  replied 
fitienne  caustically,  "  that  you  are  an  idealist. 
Idealists  are  dangerous — they  deprive  a  man  of 
the  infinite  solace  of  exaggeration.  They  are 
mathematicians  come  full  circle." 


ETIENNE  27 

"  Suppose  you  tell  us  how  much  of  what  you  say 
you  really  mean,"  I  put  to  him. 

"  As  much  or  as  little  as  most  men,"  he  replied 
with  a  shrug,  "  and  more  than  most  women." 

"  Who  at  least  try  to  speak  the  truth,"  interrupted 
Helen,  nettled. 

"  Thereby  foolishly  attempting  to  put  religion 
to  the  test,"  went  on  Etienne  imperturbably,  "  and 
succeeding  in  spoiling  both  stories — ^both  life  and 
religion." 

Only  when  we  were  nearly  half-way  on  our  train 
journey  did  Etienne's  face  relax  into  a  smile. 

''  These  trains,"  quoth  he,  "  may  spoil  life,  but 
they  strengthen  one's  faith  enormously." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  In  a  future  heaven,"  he  said,  and  mopped  his 
brow  with  a  big  vari-coloured  handkerchief. 

We  arrived  in  Marseilles  in  the  early  hours 
and  were  taken  by  our  vagabond  friend  to  a 
dirty  little  house  near  the  Old  Harbour.  In  the 
morning  we  were  told  by  the  slatternly  housekeeper 
that  M'sieu  paid  us  his  compliments  and  would 
be  unavoidably  absent  that  day.  We  consequently 
spent  it  alone  in  the  City  of  Climbing  Streets,  and 
rowed  out  to  the  islands  beyond  the  harbour.  That 
night  Etienne  was  still  absent.  On  the  following 
day  also  we  were  alone,  and  spent  the  evening  in  the 
only  cafe  we  could  find  which  had  an  orchestra. 
Marseilles  does  not  seem  to  be  a  city  of  music. 

On  our  way  home  we  passed  along  the  side  of  the 
harbour,  watching  the  twinkling  lights  on  the 
opposite  hill.     Suddenly  Helen  gripped  my  arm. 

"  There  he  is,"  she  exclaimed. 

About  fifty  yards  down  the  road,  under  the  glare 
of  a  cinema  entrance,  stood  Etienne,  swaying  danger- 
ously and  talking  in  a  strained,  high-pitched  voice. 
But  it  was  not  only  Etienne  who  attracted  our 
attention. 


28  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

His  remarks  were  addressed  to  a  familiar  figure — 
a  dignified  figure  with  shock  head,  ragged  beard 
and  lean,  drooping  moustache — a  figure  dimly 
reminiscent,  even  at  that  distance,  of  John  the 
Baptist. 

"  The  Pope  of  Avignon,"  I  exclaimed  softly  to 
Helen.     She  nodded. 

Their  backs  were  half-turned  to  us.  We  ap- 
proached quietly. 

"It  is  curious  you  met  them,"  said  the  Pope. 
"  I  remember  them  :  both  young  ?  " 

ifitienne  nodded. 

"  Five  hundred  francs,"  he  whispered  excitedly. 

"  Each,"  cautioned  the  Pope. 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  enquired  Etienne. 

The  Pope  grinned,  and  both  shook  hands. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

"  Take  rooms  for  one  night  in  the  most  expensive 
and  correct  hotel  in  Marseilles,"  I  replied,  securely 
fastening  my  pocket-book — for  a  thousand  francs 
was  pretty  nearly  all  I  possessed. 

We  packed  our  knapsacks,  paid  the  woman,  and 
entered  once  more  on  to  the  Vieux  Port. 

"  Sic  transit  gloria  £tiennsis,'^  I  remarked  to  the 
lights  across  the  harbour. 

"  Poor  Michel,"  murmured  Helen.  She  was 
thinking,  I  knew,  of  the  Boulangerie  du  Jesus. 


Ill 

IN  ARLES 


^^^Arles,  if  it  were  England,  would  be  called  Micawber 
^TTown,  for  it  is  the  town  where  everyone  is  waiting 
for  something  to  turn  up.  You  can  see  them 
from  morning  to  night  lounging  their  lives  away 
on  the  seats  which  are  among  the  few  modern 
improvements  of  which  Aries  boasts.  There  is 
scarcely  a  street  in  which  two  carriages  can  pass ; 
there  is — mirabile  dictu — only  one  cinema  ;  no 
particular  business  seems  to  be  carried  on  in  this 
out-of -the- world  little  spot ;  but  in  every  inch  of 
shade — amid  the  mottled  sunlight  of  the  Place 
du  Forum,  under  the  tall  avenues  of  trees  on  the 
Boulevard  Victor  Hugo,  under  the  pollarded  groves 
in  the  Place  Lamartine — are  rows  of  hard-backed 
seats  on  which  the  venerable  inhabitants  sit,  smoke, 
spit,  discuss  local  politics,  and,  since  human  nature 
is  much  the  same  everywhere,  each  other's  domestic 
affairs.  It  is  a  pleasant  spot  to  linger  in,  this 
Sleepy  Hollow  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,  where  a 
sense  of  impending  adventure  is  the  only  thing  that 
prevents  it  from  crumbling  completely  into  dust. 

We  found  it  a  place  after  our  own  hearts,  did 
Helen  and  I.  We  lounged  in  the  huge  Roman 
Arena;  in  the  cloisters  of  St.  Trophime,  half 
Roman  half  Moorish;  in  the  Ali^ttamps,  among 
Roman  tombs;  finally,  and  most  whole-heartedly, 
among  the  other  lo\mgers  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
Boulevard. 


30  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

We  were  sitting  over  a  coffee  one  afternoon, 
watching  the  infernal  white  dust  being  raised  in- 
stead of  settled  by  the  municipal  water-cart,  when 
a  lorry  stacked  high  with  wine-barrels  slowed  up 
alongside  us  and,  after  a  few  minutes'  breathless 
panting,  shut  off  its  engine  and  stopped. 

A  perspiring  little  man,  with  twinkling  black 
eyes  and  grossly  unshaven  chin,  carrying  in  his 
hand  an  immense  bunch  of  white  Ulac,  descended 
from  it,  shook  the  dust  out  of  his  clothes,  raised  his 
hat  and  approached  Helen. 

''  For  the  English  lady,"  he  said,  beaming,  handing 
her  the  bunch  of  lilac. 

Helen,  I  must  confess,  is  usually  a  dilB&cult  per- 
son to  surprise.  But  when  the  bouquet  was  thus 
suddenly  thrust  at  her  she  could  not  restrain  a  gasp 
of  astonishment. 

"  How  lovely  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  But  why  for 
me?" 

*'  It  is  sent  by  Madame's  most  devoted  admirer," 
explained  the  donor  of  the  gift. 

Helen  turned  a  beautiful  rose-pink — ^so  that  had 
her  "  most  devoted  admirer  "  been  present  I  should 
not  have  blamed  him  for  falling  there  and  then  on 
his  knees  and  worshipping  her. 

"  I  think  there  has  been  some  mistake,"  I  inter- 
posed. 

*'  But  no,"  returned  the  fat  man,  somewhat 
nettled.  "  There  has  been  no  mistake  whatever. 
As  if  anyone  could  mistake  Madame  !  " 

His  tone,  somehow,  made  me  feel  ashamed  of 
myself,  in  spite  of  a  sternly-suppressed  desire  to 
laugh.     I  subsided. 

"  I  have  a  message  to  give  Madame,"  continued 
this  impertinent  Uttle  intruder.  "  Her  most 
devoted  admirer  begs  to  offer  his  heartfelt  regrets 
that  he  cannot  himself  present  his  gift,  but  there 
was  business  to  transact  which  he  could  not  miss. 


IN  ABLES  31 

He  therefore  deputed  me  in  his  stead,  and  adjured 
me  to  press  upon  Madame  that  she  should  be  there 
next  Sunday  also.     His  life  depends  upon  seeing  her." 

"Where?"  gasped  Helen.  By  this  time  a  small 
crowd  had  collected,  to  our  increased  embarrass- 
ment. 

'^  Mon  Dieuf  at  the  bull-fight,  of  course."  The 
"  deputy  most  devoted  admirer "  was  not  to  be 
put  off  with  such  quibbles. 

"  But  I  was  never  at  a  bull-fight  in  my  life !  " 
exclaimed  Helen. 

"  Madame  has  the  coyness  of  the  South."  The 
little  man's  mouth  spread  itself  into  an  oleaginous 
smile. 

The  effect  of  this  compUment  on  Helen  was 
magical.  Her  command  of  the  French  language 
failed  her. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  "  she  ejaculated  in  the  most 
unmistakable  English. 

Even  the  "  deputy,"  though  apparently  in- 
fatuated (for  he  had  never  lifted  his  eyes  from  her 
during  the  whole  conversation),  saw  that  she  was 
annoyed. 

"  Madame  dit .?  "  he  queried. 

By  this  time  Helen  had  sufficiently  recovered 
her  seK-possession  to  give  him  a  literal  translation 
of  her  previous  utterance. 

"  Look  here,"  I  added,  as  soon  as  I  saw  his  face 
drop,  "  it's  no  use  saying  that  a  mistake  hasn't 
been  made.  Madame  has  told  you  she  was  never 
at  a  bull-fight  in  her  Hfe ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
neither  of  us  was  here  last  Sunday.  In  addition 
to  that,  I  think  it  is  extremely  bad  taste  to  present 
bouquets  from  admirers  in  the  presence  of  Madame's 
husband.  If  I  were  in  England,  do  you  know 
what  apology  I  should  demand  ?  " 

"  No  ?  "  The  Httle  man's  eyes  were  open  wide 
enough  now,  and  fixed  full  on  mine. 


32  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

I  began  to  take  off  my  coat  and  turn  up  my  shirt- 
sleeves, to  the  immense  satisfaction  of  the  crowd. 

The  "  deputy,"  however,  was  in  no  mood  for 
that  sort  of  thing.  His  eyes  suddenly  brimmed 
over  with  tears  ;  he  dashed  his  hat  on  the  ground. 

"  How  can  T  adequately  express  my  desolation  ?  " 
he  cried,  addressing  Helen.  "  Madame,  in  the  name 
of  my  friend  and  myself,  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me. 
This  mistake  has  ruined  me  for  life.  Listen,  I  beg  of 
you,  while  I  tell  you  the  desolating  history  of  my 
friend." 

He  pushed  away  the  crowd,  retrieved  his  hat, 
and  sat  down  beside  us. 

"  Imagine  how  it  was  with  him,"  he  continued, 
"  when  at  the  bull-fight  last  Sunday  he  saw  a 
beautiful  EngUsh  lady,  with  eyes  like  the  cold 
northern  stars — oh,  so  frigid  ! — mouth,  a  little 
rosebud — "  he  put  his  fingers  to  his  lips  and  blew 
a  ridiculous  kiss  which  set  us  both  laughing.  "  Ah, 
but  you  must  not  laugh.  You  do  not  understand," 
he  cried,  clutching  our  arms.  "  When  we  of  the 
South  see  your  northern  goddesses,  we  are  trans- 
ported, we  cry  out,  we  faint,  we  fall  in  love.  All 
this  my  friend  did  at  the  bull-fight :  they  might 
have  killed  twenty  bulls — fifty,  a  hundred :  he 
had  no  eyes,  no  mind,  no  soul  for  anything  except 
the  beautiful  unknown. 

"  But  she,  on  her  part,  was  icy,  disdainful,  almost 
aghast,  it  seemed,  at  the  sport  of  the  arena.  She 
had  no  eyes  for  him.  She  watched  frozenly  while 
he  dumbly  worshipped  her.  As  she  left  the  building 
she  dropped  her  handkerchief.  It  was  his  oppor- 
tunity.    He  seized  it,  restored  it  to  her,  spoke  to  her. 

"  She  thanked  him,  smiled  upon  him.  For  all 
the  week  he  has  been  basking  in  that  smile. 

"  To-day  he  implored  me  to  present  myself  to 
the  lady — he  described  her  to  me,  and  where  I 
should  find  her — here,  on  the  Boulevard.     It  was 


IN  ARLES  33 

arranged  between  us  that  I  should  be  relieved  of 
certain  debts  if  I  could  induce  her  to  be  present  at 
the  Arena  next  Sunday.  I  tell  you  these  things, 
Madame,  so  as  to  show  you  I  was  not  altogether  a 
free  agent.       For  these  debts  were  to  me — terrible." 

He  mopped  his  brow  despairingly. 

"  Now  I  am  undone,"  he  sighed.  "  I  can  never 
pay  them.  My  friend  is  undone.  He  will  die  of 
love.     It  is  a  sorry  business,  mon  Dieu.^^ 

He  stared  gloomily  at  the  roadway  for  some  time. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  brightened. 

"  The  Boulevard  is  long,"  he  exclaimed  trium- 
phantly. "  One  can  but  try  again.  Madame  will, 
perhaps,  excuse " 

Before  we  could  reaUse  it,  he  had  snatched  the 
bouquet,  made  a  sweeping  bow,  and  hopped  on  to 
the  lorry.     In  a  few  seconds  the  engine  was  started. 

As  the  clouds  of  white  dust  followed,  we  saw  a 
bunch  of  lilac  waved  cheerily  in  our  direction. 

n 

"  How  about  this  ?  "  I  asked  Helen,  holding  up 
for  her  inspection  a  tiny  candlestick  with  toy  candle 
already  ensconed.  "  If  the  Sisters  of  Charity  have 
really  God's  good  gift  of  imagination,  as  they  should 
have,  they  wiU  understand  this  present  for  little 
Olga.  She  will  be  able  now  to  bum  a  candle  for  her 
doll,  which  is  just  what  she  is  longing  to  do." 

"  Right  0 ,"  assented  Helen.  We  paid  the 
modest  sum — you  can  buy  children's  toys  cheaply 
in  French  roadside  markets — and  left  the  booth. 

We  had  suddenly  reahsed  that  Aries  was  not  all 
comedy,  that  there  was  suffering  in  its  sunHght  and 
tragedy  lurking  among  its  picturesquely  attractive 
streets.  Olga  had  brought  us  starkly  up  against 
the  fact. 

Olga's  age  was  only  five,  but  her  history  con- 
trasted   curiously    with    the    pleasantness    of    her 


34  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

surroundings.  When  she  was  two,  her  father  had 
been  killed  at  the  front — the  big,  strong,  happy- 
go-lucky  father  whom  she  had  just  begun  to  know. 
To  Aries  he  was  only  one  of  the  Enfants  de  la  Pa- 
roisse  whose  names  were  inscribed  on  the  big  war 
memorial  in  St.  Trophime  ;  but  to  his  little  daughter 
he  was  at  the  same  time  much  less  and  much  more 
— 8b  memory  that  was  already  beginning  to  fade, 
a  blank  that  was  rapidly  growing  perceptible. 

Olga's  mother  married  again  soon  after.  The 
kiddy  looked  upon  her  new  father  at  first  with  the 
wide  eyes  of  childish  amazement — for  how  had  he 
suddenly  come  to  take  the  place  of  her  other  ? — 
and  then  with  fear  and  horror.  Young  as  she  was, 
she  soon  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  cruelly  beaten 
by  him.  For  months  he  continued  this  treatment 
— "  discipline  "  he  used  to  call  it — ^while,  at  the 
same  time,  her  mother,  to  whom  she  ran  for  pro- 
tection, became  less  and  less  loving,  more  and 
more  casual  and  hard.  It  was  so  complete  a 
reversal  of  her  former  happiness  that  little  Olga 
was  bewildered  and  scared  out  of  her  wits. 

Then  came  a  morning  when  she  woke  to  find  her- 
self alone  in  the  house.  Cry  as  she  would,  no  mother 
came  to  comfort,  no  stepfather,  even,  to  curse 
and  thrash  her.     She  had  been  abandoned. 

For  some  months,  when  we  met  her,  she  had  been 
in  the  cheerless  company  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity, 
one  among  forty  other  foundlings,  many  of  them 
luckier  than  she  in  having  a  few  toys  to  play  mth 
and  very  occasional  treats  from  friends  in  the 
town.  Of  them  all,  Olga  seemed  the  most  com- 
pletely dependent  on  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  whose 
training  was  that  of  school  dragons  and  whose 
instincts  were  those  of  prison  wardresses. 

From  the  moment  she  entered  the  walls  of  her 
new  "  home,"  the  generous  sunlight  and  warmth  of 
the  Midi  seemed  excluded.     She  was  not  beaten, 


m  ARLES  36 

it  is  true,  but  there  is  a  kindness  which  is  almost 
cruelty. 

Her  one  remaining  joy  was  the  Infants'  School, 
with  its  shaded  courtyard  ranged  round  with  tiny 
forms,  where  she  spent  some  hours  each  day.  It 
was  not  so  much  that  she  was  sage — quick  at 
her  lessons  and  receptive  of  mind — ;  it  was  her 
only  time  in  which  to  garner  some  of  the  kindhness 
of  Hfe  which  her  southern  soul  craved. 

It  was  here  that  we  found  her  as  we  carried  our 
small  gift  of  candles  and  little  gilt  candlestick. 
The  doll  given  her  some  days  previously  was  lying 
in  her  arms. 

"  Pour  ta  poupee,  ma  petite^''  said  Helen,  handing 
her  our  present. 

A  Httle  hand,  released  from  the  care  of  the  doll, 
grasped  the  candlestick ;  two  bright  eyes  glanced 
shyly  up  to  Helen. 

"  Merci,  madame.^^  The  voice  was  scarcely  above 
a  whisper,  but  all  the  gratitude  of  her  starved  years 
was  in  it. 

"  What  did  you  do  with  your  dolly  last  night  ?  " 
asked  Helen.     "  TeU  me." 

"  I  put  her  to  bed,  Madame." 

"  What,  without  supper  ?  "  Helen  pretended  to 
be  shocked. 

A  knowing  smile  came  into  the  child's  face,  which 
ill-befitted  the  drab  black  smock  in  which  charity 
had  clothed  her  natural  daintiness. 

"  It  cannot  eat,  Madame.     It  is  only  a  doll." 

Helen  accepted  this  rebuff  meekly. 

"  And  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  woke  it  up  and  dressed  it  and  brought  it  to 
school." 

"  What  did  you  bring  it  to  school  for,  ma  petite  ?  " 
persisted  Helen. 

*'  I  have  never  had  one  before,  Madame.  I 
wanted  the  other  children  to  see  it." 


36  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  And  what  do  the  Sisters  say  to  it  at  the  Con- 
vent ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Madame.  But  they  will  not  let  me 
take  it  to  Communion." 

She  slipped  away  for  a  moment  to  examine  the 
candlestick.  For  the  first  time  she  volunteered  a 
statement. 

"  I  take  it  in  the  church  and  burn  the  candles  for 
dolly,"  she  said.  "  In  a  little  comer  where  no  one 
sees." 

If  you  should,  one  day,  visit  the  convent  church 
and  see  in  some  niche  a  tiny  gilt  candlestick  plas- 
tered with  grease,  you  will  know  it  is  Olga's,  in 
which  the  candles  were  burnt  for  her  dolly.  But 
by  that  time,  probably,  it  will  have  been  swept  up 
with  the  rubbish. 

ni 

From  one  prisoner  to  others.  We  left  Aries  by 
road,  picking  up  near  the  station  a  friendly  cart 
bound  for  Tarascon.  We  were  in  high  spirits,  as 
they  should  be  who  visit  the  town  of  Daudet's 
Tartarin,  the  embodiment  of  the  mercurial  Midi. 

It  was  just  after  we  had  bundled  our  few  precious 
belongings  on  to  the  cart,  and  had  driven  off  at  a 
smart  pace — a  pace,  indeed,  that  we  would  have 
imagined  the  old  horse  incapable  of — ^that  the 
driver  pulled  up  sharply,  and  pointed  with  his 
whip. 

"  There  they  go,"  he  remarked,  shifting  his  cigar 
from  one  side  of  his  mouth  to  the  other. 

We  followed  the  direction  in  which  he  pointed.  .  .  . 

There  were  twenty  of  them,  chained  together 
and  guarded  by  armed  warders — as  pretty  a  col- 
lection of  cut-throats  as  it  has  ever  been  our  fortune 
to  look  upon.  Two  of  them  were  dressed  in  their 
native  Moroccan  costume — except  that  the  knife 
at   the   waist   was   lacking — a   few   more   were   in 


IN  ARLES  37 

ragged  uniform  ("  Deserters  probably,"  said  our 
driver) ;  the  majority  retained  the  clothes  of  decent 
workmen. 

In  sections  of  four  they  pulled  and  dragged  each 
other  silently  along  the  road,  some  apparently 
anxious  to  return  to  the  jail  they  had  come  to 
rely  on  for  shelter ;  others  shy  and  nervous  ;  most 
of  them  apathetic.  The  warders,  pipe  in  mouth, 
regarded  them  carelessly  enough,  but  with  just 
sufficient  attention  to  urge  on  a  laggard  or  restrain 
an  impatient  movement. 

One  of  the  Moroccans  in  the  front  rank  suddenly 
raised  a  manacled  arm  threateningly  at  his  guard : 
a  quick  prod  in  the  ribs  sent  him  staggering  against 
his  companions,  and  for  a  second  the  section  was 
in  confusion.  A  sharp  word  from  the  warder : 
the  party  reformed  instantly,  and  plodded  drearily 
up  the  wooded  approach  to  the  station. 

"  Where  are  they  going  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

"  Tarascon,"  replied  the  driver  shortly,  and 
whipping  up  his  horse,  left  the  pack  behind. 

It  is  a  long,  straight  road  from  Aries  to  Tarascon, 
bordered  by  tall  trees  and  low  hedges,  very  rigid, 
very  straight — very  French ;  the  cemented  tele- 
graph poles  and  the  crimson-topped  kilometre 
stones  proclaimed  it  a  Route  Nationale.  A  few 
farm-houses — dwelling-place,  stable  and  fortress 
combined — are  dotted  along  its  route,  as  dusty  as 
the  road  itself.  Every  now  and  then,  apparently 
from  nowhere,  rises  a  cluster  of  one-storey  cottages 
round  a  well. 

And  on  either  side,  stretching  to  the  distant 
hills  in  one  direction,  and  to  the  sea  in  the  other, 
the  broad  free  expanse  of  the  Rhone  valley,  spring- 
coloured  and  virginal,  irrigated  by  small  shaded 
canals  and  dotted  with  Httle  huts  like  dolls' 
houses. 

But  on  the  road  itself,   dust,   dust,   dust,  that 


38  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

filtered  through  clothes  and  cemented  itself  into  a 
plaster  of  Paris  casing  for  one's  body. 

"  A  curse  upon  the  dust,"  ejaculated  the  driver. 
We  stopped  at  a  Httle  buvette  by  the  wayside. 

"  I  will  tell  you  something,  mon  ami,''  he  said, 
"  all  the  ills  of  the  Midi  you  can  attribute  to  dust. 
It  fills  a  man's  throat  to  choking  point ;  and  then, 
to  relieve  it,  he  drinks  good  wine  which — ^bene- 
diction ! — empties  his  pocket  and  fills  his  veins 
with  hotter  blood  than  his  parents  put  there.  Then 
he  imbibes  more  dust  and  more  wine  and  does 
things  he's  sorry  for  afterwards.  Here's  to  the 
dust  which  gives  us  wine  !  " — and  raising  his  glass, 
he  emptied  it  at  a  single  quaff  calhng  almost  in  the 
same  breath  for  more. 

"  That's  the  story  of  those  fellows  we  saw,"  he 
remarked,  alluding  to  the  prisoners. 

"  Perhaps  it's  Olga's  story  too,"  said  Helen  to  me. 

Our  driver  did  not  understand  the  allusion,  but 
was  not  to  be  left  out  of  the  conversation. 

"  It's  every  story  down  here." 

"  You  are  all  prisoners  then  ?  "  Helen  asked  him. 

"  Until  we  are  caught,"  he  replied.  "  Then  we 
become  free.  When  you  are  clapped  into  jail  all 
the  troubles  of  living  are  at  an  end." 

"  But  what  of  those  belonging  to  you  whom  you 
leave  outside  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  They  cease  to  have  the  trouble  of  looking  after 
you,  that's  all,"  he  repUed  with  a  grin. 

It  chanced  that  as  we  arrived  in  Tarascon  the 
same  batch  of  prisoners  were  leaving  the  train  for 
the  jail — ^trains  travel  slowly  in  the  Midi.  Here, 
for  the  first  time,  we  noticed  an  upright,  refined 
youth  in  their  midst,  brought  into  such  company 
by  I  wonder  what  history  of  weakness  and  good 
intentions. 

"  Doesn't  he  bring  back  Olga  very  close  to  you  ?  " 
asked  Helen  in  pointing  him  out. 


IN   ARLES  39 

"  That's  true.     She  also  is  a  prisoner." 

"  And  a  more  hopeless  one  even  than  these 
people,"  cried  Helen.  "  Whatever  has  she  done 
to  deserve  the  punishment  she  is  receiving  ?  " 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  Punishments  aren't  meted  out  according  to 
deserts  in  this  world,"  I  said. 

"  By  this  world,  you  mean,"  corrected  Helen. 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  are  people  so  proud  of  what  they  call 
civilisation  ?  "  she  continued,  "  most  of  it's  pretty 
rotten." 

"  Not  all." 

"  No.  The  material  part's  all  right.  But  the 
spiritual,  I  mean.  And  you  can't  separate  the 
two.     That's  the  tragedy." 

"  It's  Olga's  tragedy,  at  any  rate,"  I  assented. 

"  And  these  poor  fellows'." 

"  But  the  Frenchman  puts  it  down  to  the  dust." 

"  Anything  rather  than  blame  himself." 

"  He's  right,  my  dear.  We're  all  prisoners  in 
one  way  or  another — prisoners  of  civilisation,  the 
evil  of  it  as  well  as  the  good.  We  can't  help  it. 
Why  bother  ?  " 

"  Well  then " — Helen  tossed  her  head  trium- 
phantly— "  thank  goodness  I  am  free  to  choose  what 
I  shall  do  and  where  I  shall  go." 

"  You  mean  ?  " 

"  I'm  out  of  conceit  with  Tartarin  de  Tarascon : 
at  the  moment  I  strongly  dislike  him.  He's  super- 
ficial and  lazy.     I'm  going  straight  on  to  Nimes." 

I  had  Hked  the  look  of  Tarascon.  But  what  was 
I  to  do  when  Helen  commanded  ? 


IV 

OLD   ACQUAINTANCE 

I 

Those  who  do  not  lounge  lose  much  :  if  we  had  not 
lounged  so  persistently  we  should  not  have  been 
invited  to  the  wedding  feast  of  Therese  Bessiere  and 
Marcel  Dubosc  at  Nimes. 

We  came  upon  them  and  their  hosts  of  friends 
sitting  at  a  long  table  in  a  street  near  the  Place 
Montcalm.  They  were  popular  young  folk ;  and 
as  Marcel  had  expectations  from  a  rich  uncle,  a 
wine  merchant  in  Paris,  the  match  was  considered 
a  good  one  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  feast 
therefore  to  be  patronised  at  all  costs — especially 
as  Uncle  was  gracing  it  with  his  presence  and  was 
suspected  of  generous  tendencies  when  "  under  the 
influence."  There  was  of  course  no  sign  of  such 
expansiveness  as  yet ;  for  after  the  tiring  day  of 
civil  and  rehgious  ceremonies,  of  a  prolonged  car- 
riage drive  round  the  town,  of  being  dressed  in 
one's  best  clothes,  the  company  had  arrived  only  at 
the  preliminary  stage  of  aperitifs. 

These,  however,  were  proving  liberal  both  in 
quahty  and  quantity  to  empty  stomachs.  The 
guests  were  growing  talkative  and  impatient  for 
the  waiting  feast.  The  bride  had  removed  what 
I  may  irreverently  term  the  "  fal-lals "  of  her 
costume  and  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table  in 
slippers  and  shawl.  The  bridegroom  had  taken  off 
his  collar.     A  free-and-easy  atmosphere  pervaded 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  41 

the  entire  section  of  street  and  several  other  loungers 
besides  ourselves  were  bent  on  taking  advantage 
of  it. 

We  edged  our  way  nearer  to  the  table. 

"  A  song  !  "  cried  one  of  the  guests.  "  Who  will 
give  us  a  song  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  I  yelled  at  the  top  of  my  voice. 

For  a  moment  every  face — ^including  Helen's — 
was  turned  in  my  direction.  A  dead  silence.  Then 
a  shout  of  approval. 

"  Messieurs,  Mesdames,  I  will  sing  you  an  EngUsh 
song  you  all  know — a  song  we  sang  together  when 
we  fought  side  by  side  in  the  fields  of  your  beautiful 
France!" 

I  jumped  on  to  a  small  table  near-by,  and  striking 
an  attitude,  gave  them  "  Tipperary."  Heaven  help 
me,  I  would  no  more  sing  it  in  England  to-day 
than  I  would  ride  a  bone-shaker  in  a  beaver  hat 
down  the  Strand  ! — but  here  it  was  an  immense 
success.  The  chorus  was  sung  again  and  again, 
and  as  I  descended  to  terra  firma  a  dozen  glasses 
were  held  out  in  my  direction.  I  took  that  of  the 
bride,  naturally,  and  made  my  only  speech  in 
French. 

"  On  behalf  of  your  English  Allies,"  I  cried,  "  I 
drink  to  the  long  Hfe,  health,  prosperity  and  happi- 
ness of  the  newly-married  couple  !  " 

Two  minutes'  din  followed  upon  this  effort. 
Helen  was  pressed  into  the  feast :  the  bride  rose 
up  and  kissed  me :  the  bridegroom  gripped  my 
hand :  I  was  immediately  given  a  place  at  the  table 
next  to  Uncle,  and  thus  only  one  remove  from  the 
bride,  while  Helen  was  put  next  to  the  bridegroom. 

There  are  moments  of  triumph  in  the  lives  of 
most  men  when,  whatever  may  be  their  avocation, 
the  artist  rises  uppermost  in  them,  and  they  care  not 
for  their  own  success,  but  for  the  supreme  achieve- 
ment   of   their    work.     This    was    mine.     I    would 


42  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

rather  have  been,  at  the  moment,  the  author  of  that 
French  speech  than  any  other  man  aUve  ! 

What  happened  to  Helen  for  the  rest  of  that 
memorable  evening  I  must  leave  her  to  tell  you 
herself  if  she  so  wishes  :  I  can  only  describe  my  own 
adventures  until  the  moment  when  the  entrance  of 
our  old  friend  and  enemy  threw  us  together  again 
in  the  dark  roadway. 

I  soon  learnt  from  Uncle,  who  wheezed  the  story 
into  my  ear,  how  Marcel  had  served  his  country, 
had  been  wounded  twice,  and  had  also  been  pro- 
moted officer  on  the  field.  He  was  a  good  boy, 
was  Marcel ;  a  Httle  lazy  perhaps — but  then  the 
present  generation  did  not  know  how  to  work  Uke 
the  last — but  good,  yes,  good  as  young  men  went 
nowadays.  Therese  was  a  lucky  girl  to  have 
him — this  in  a  loud  stage-whisper  accompanied  by 
a  sly  dig  in  my  ribs.  Therese  blushed  slightly 
beneath  her  southern  tan. 

"  He  is  a  dear,"  she  whispered  ambiguously. 

"  Come,"  cried  Uncle  suddenly.  "  When  will 
dinner  be  ready  ?  " 

"  Immediately,"  rephed  a  little  frock-coated  waiter 
emerging  from  a  neighbouring  doorway.  "It  is 
waiting." 

We  formed  a  procession  and  entered  the  dining 
hall — a  long  whitewashed  room  with  oil  lamps  and 
paper  festoons  hanging  cheerily  from  the  ceilmg.  I 
was  again  placed  next  to  Uncle. 

The  feast  is  blurred  in  my  memory.  I  can  only 
remember  that,  as  course  after  course  was  served 
without  the  slightest  hint  of  a  termination,  and  as 
my  glass  was  kept  constantly  filled,  I  began  sur- 
reptitiously to  wipe  my  beaded  forehead  and  count 
the  exact  number  of  festoons  in  a  given  area  of 
ceiling.  No  boy  at  a  school  treat  ever  filled  him- 
self more  completely  with  the  good  things  of  hfe 
than    did    I    in    the    whitewashed   room.      I    was 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  43 

conscious  of  talking  wonderfully  fluent  French — of 
even  attempting  to  imitate  the  hard  Proven9al 
accent.  I  listened  while  the  praises  of  everybody 
in  the  room — myself  included — ^were  sung  by 
Uncle,  who  was  beginning  to  enjoy  himself.  I 
learned  from  other  guests  the  history  of  Therese, 
who  had  been  considered  one  of  the  cleverest  girls 
at  her  school,  and  who  had  waited  for  her  lover 
through  four  long  heart-breaking  years  of  war. 
Marcel,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  poured 
out  his  gratitude  for  my  song :  again  and  again  I 
wished  him  every  happiness  in  the  future.  I 
clinked  glasses  with  him,  with  his  bride,  with 
Uncle,  with  Therese's  mother  and  Therese's 
father ;  it  was  becoming  a  mechanical  business, 
when  a  glance  from  Helen — ^the  only  time  I  saw  her 
— ^warned  me  to  stop. 

I  waved  away  yet  another  course  as  it  approached. 
Therese  looked  at  me  concernedly. 

"  Mais,  Monsieu  afini  ?  "  she  inquired. 

I  smiled  apologetically. 

"  Ah  comment  /  "  I  became  for  the  moment 
the  centre  of  a  commiserating  group  of  guests. 
Then  someone  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  cracked 
a  fresh  joke,  and  attention  was  happily  diverted. 

At  last  the  meal  came  to  an  end. 

"  Tiens,  tiens  I "  cried  one  rising  to  his  feet. 
"  The  English  m'sieu  has  given  us  a  song  we  knew 
as  soldiers.  Permit  me,  messieurs,  mesdames,  to 
sing  one  to  him  which  I,  too,  learned  from  his  com- 
patriots on  the  battlefields." 

Then  in  a  roaring  voice  he  gave  us  a  ribald  ditty 
composed  by  English  Tommies,  "  Apres  la  guerre 
finite  I  must  add  that  it  seemed  rather  strong 
meat,  even  for  the  gay  company  in  which  it  was 
sung.  I  hid  my  face  and  sincerely  hoped  Helen's 
French  would  break  down  at  the  critical  moment. 

The  singer  himself,  however,  failed  before  that ; 


44  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

but  his  confusion  was  luckily  cloaked  by  the  rest  of 
the  company,  who  rose  from  the  now  naked  table. 
Some  of  them  stood  round  the  walls  smoking  and 
drinking ;   others  sauntered  out  into  the  street. 

In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  the  table  was 
cleared,  taken  off  its  trestles  and  placed  against 
the  wall.  There  was  an  awkward  pause :  everyone 
seemed  expectant,  but  nothing  happened. 

"  Eh  hien,''  said  a  young  man.  "  There  is  a 
piano.     I  will  play  until  the  musician  arrives." 

He  struck  up  a  lively  tune.  First  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  took  the  floor,  followed  by  the  other 
guests  in  quick  succession.  I  found  myself  part- 
nering a  distant  cousin  of  Therese's — a  buxom,  dark 
girl  who  fortunately  knew  as  much  about  dancing 
as  I  did.  Faster  and  faster  whirled  the  music  ; 
and  the  movements,  which  had  at  first  been  stately, 
became  freer  and  wilder  with  it.  Gradually  the 
room  grew  thick,  not  only  with  tobacco-smoke  but 
with  the  fine  dust  that  rose  from  the  earth  floor. 
Wine  was  called  at  the  conclusion  of  the  dance,  and 
after  a  few  moments'  respite  we  were  at  it  again. 
The  heat  was  terrific. 

We  were  in  the  middle  of  what  purported  to 
be  a  waltz  when  an  enormous  voice  drowned  the 
wheezy  piano. 

"  Etienne  Pepino  at  your  service  !  "  it  cried. 

The  music  stopped ;  but  not  more  suddenly  than 
did  I.  I  do  not  know  to  this  day  what  happened 
to  my  partner. 

Etienne,  his  hair  and  beard  more  unkempt 
than  ever,  his  eyes  sparkling,  a  great  guitar  stream- 
ing with  coloured  ribbons  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
strode  up  the  room. 

"  First,  let  us  have  a  little  dance  I  learned  in 
Montenegro,"  he  cried.  "  Take  your  partners, 
gentlemen." 

I  sought  out  Helen  with  my  eyes ;  she  was  on 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  45 

the  other  side  of  the  room.  I  motioned  her  to  the 
door. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  queried  when  we  joined  each  other 
in  the  street. 

"  The  bad  penny,"  replied  Helen. 

"  He  would  have  been  worth  more  than  that  if 
we  had  let  him,"  I  remarked  savagely. 

"  Dance,  my  little  manikins,  dance  !  "  shouted 
Etienne  in  the  distance.  The  twang  of  his  guitar 
sounded  like  devils'  laughter. 

II 

We  took  good  care  next  day  to  avoid  any  of  the 
haunts  of  Etienne — ^we  knew  from  previous  ex- 
perience the  type  of  place  in  which  he  would  most 
probably  spend  his  time — and  saw  no  more  of 
him.  We  watched  the  passing  show  from  a  cafe 
table  facing  the  Place  des  Arenes — a  somewhat 
pretentious  establishment,  with  white  painted  ceil- 
ings and  walls  hideously  decorated  with  the  "  art " 
of  local  whitewashers.  From  our  seat  in  this  coign 
of  vantage  we  saw  the  town's  representatives^ 
sticking  up  the  gaudy  bills  for  next  Sunday's  bull- 
fight in  which  the  chief  attraction  was  a  woman, 
named,  I  remember,  Angelita,  who  was  to  pose  as  a 
statue  before  the  charging  bull. 

That  the  old  Roman  amphitheatres  should  so 
completely  carry  on  their  tradition  of  savagery, 
was  a  fact  to  which  Aries  had  already  accustomed 
us  ;  but  that  a  woman  should  not  only  watch,  but 
actually  take  part  in  the  "  sport,"  was  something 
new  to  our  sensitive  English  minds.  We  remarked 
upon  it  to  the  waiter. 

"  Eh  hien,''^  he  exclaimed.  "  They  are  brought 
up  to  it,  these  Spaniards." 

"  Does  your  Church  say  nothing  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

"  It  gives  them  all  communion  before  they  enter 
the  bull-ring,"  he  replied. 


46  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Here  was  food  for  thought ;  the  Catholic  Church 
giving  Communion  to  bull-fighters  in  one  of  the 
Protestant  strongholds  of  France.  Who  was  it 
who  said  that  religion  was  the  biggest  paradox  in  a 
paradoxical  life  ? 

It  happened  that  as  we  passed  the  Arena  on  the 
following  Sunday  during  the  progress  of  the  Corrida 
de  Toros,  there  drove  up  to  the  entrance  a  carriage 
containing  four  of  the  celebrated  matadors  engaged 
for  the  day's  butchery — four  hard-faced,  sullen 
Spaniards,  whose  very  cruelty  of  countenance  lent 
something  impressive  to  the  magnificence  of  their 
gold  and  scarlet  attire.  An  admiring  crowd  at  once 
collected ;  there  were  cheers  and  clapping ;  but 
the  four  remained  absolutely  impassive  in  discus- 
sion with  an  official  of  the  ring.  Then  two  of  them 
descended  from  the  carriage  and  entered  the  stables 
of  the  Arena,  from  which  they  reappeared  a  moment 
later  aiding  AngeHta  "  la  femme  statue^  A  more 
repulsive  face  we  wish  never  to  see,  lacking  every 
instinct  of  true  womanliness  :  but  her  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears  which  occasionally  brimmed  over 
down  her  hard,  brown  cheeks.  One  side  of  her 
face  was  patched  roughly  with  cotton  wool ;  her 
arm  and  shoulder  were  swathed  in  bandages  and 
she  carried  her  cloak  in  her  teeth. 

There  was  terrific  applause  as  she  emerged :  she 
had  been  wounded  by  the  bull,  it  appeared.  She 
rapidly  took  her  place  with  the  others  in  the  car- 
riage, and  they  were  soon  lost  to  view.  We  could 
trace  them  into  the  distance  by  the  accompanying 
cheers. 

The  crowd  at  the  entrance  to  the  Arena  was  just 
beginning  to  disperse  when  there  emerged  a  different 
figure.  He  was  lying  limply  on  a  wooden  truck, 
covered  for  the  most  part  with  rough  sacking,  his 
white,  drawn  face  propped  up  on  his  hat. 

It  was  Etienne. 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  47 

"  He  saved  her,"  said  the  official  who  was  accom- 
panying him.  "  A  portion  of  her  robe  was  caught 
in  the  bull's  horn  as  she  was  making  her  statue, 
she  was  carried  off  her  feet.  Then  this  man,  pauvre 
diahle,  jumped  into  the  arena  from  .  .  .  who  can 
tell  where  ?  .  .  .  No  one  saw  him  jump.  His 
roars  frightened  even  the  bull.  He  seized  the 
animal  .  .  .  must  have  been  crazy !  .  .  .  almost 
it  seemed  by  force  dragged  him  o£E  Angelita  .  .  . 
he  has  paid  for  it,  sacre  nam  !  " 

"  Is  he  badly  hurt  ?  "  asked  Helen  anxiously. 

The  official  lifted  both  eyes  and  hands  heaven- 
wards and  gave  vent  to  a  prolonged  whistle. 

"  There  is  Uttle  of  him  left,"  he  answered.  "  I 
take  him  to  the  hospital,  but " 

Another  whistle. 

At  this  moment  the  dying  man  laboriously  turned 
his  head  in  our  direction     His  eyes  lit  up. 

"  The  two  infants  !  "  he  ejaculated  slowly. 

"  What  can  we  do  for  you  ?  "  Helen  was  by  his  side. 

"  Only  go  away  and  leave  me  to  finish  in  peace," 
he  groaned.  "  She  really  wasn't  worth  it,  you 
know.  .  .  ." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time.  Helen,  with  a  motherly 
instinct  which  was  absent  from  the  crowd  of  men, 
pushed  into  the  throng,  and  returned  with  some 
water. 

Etienne  drank  a  few  drops,  and  we  poured  the 
rest  over  his  forehead.  His  eyes  Hghtened  as  it 
brought  temporary  relief  to  his  sufferings. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  touch  of  his 
old  vigour,  "  never  let  your  confounded  head  run 
away  with  you.  I  did  mine  and  it  has  taken  most 
of  my  guts  with  it — ^you'll  excuse  the  slang,  of  course  ; 
no  time  to  choose  expressions.  Besides,  you  can 
express  best  what  you  want  to  say  in  slang.  And 
here's  some  more  advice  ;  though  I  shall  die  just  the 
same  whether  you  accept  it  or  not.     It's  this — keep 


48  AMONG  FRENCH  POLK 

to  the  beaten  track ;  it's  safer  for  everybody  con- 
cerned ;  to  fly  off  at  a  tangent  from  civilisation  is  to 
boomerang — and  civilisation's  a  hard  thing  to  hit 
against.  Listen  " — he  added  with  a  sneer — "  to 
the  complete  recantation  of  a  blackguard — when 
it  is  too  late." 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  one  thing,"  said  Helen.  "  We 
left  you  in  MarseiUes  because  you  were  planning  to 
steal  our  money.     Why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

The  old  sinner  chuckled — and  then  groaned 
heavily. 

"  Don't  ask  too  many  questions.  I'll  recant  in 
the  general,  but  never,  never  in  the  particular." 

The  relief  afforded  by  the  water  was  rapidly 
passing  :  it  was  plain  that  the  end  could  not  be  far 
off.  Every  now  and  then  Etienne's  hands  clutched 
the  sides  of  the  barrow  convulsively  as  a  spasm  of 
agony  beaded  his  forehead  with  sweat. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  would  wish  done  for 
you  ?  "  It  was  the  only  time  I  have  seen  Helen's 
tears  unchecked  in  public. 

Etienne  closed  his  eyes  and  made  no  answer ; 
we  who  were  waiting  began  to  think  he  had  already 
passed  away.  Then  his  breathing,  which  had 
become  almost  inaudible,  grew  stentorian,  the 
veins  in  his  temples  pulsated  like  snakes — ^it  was  a 
tremendous  bracing  for  a  last  effort. 

"...  Michel  .  .  ."  he  whispered,  and  col- 
lapsed. 

The  official,  who  all  this  time  had  been  standing 
by  callously  smoking  a  cigarette,  bustled  up ;  I 
covered  the  dead  face  with  a  piece  of  sacking ;  and 
the  corpse  of  a  man  who  had  Hved  more  fearlessly 
than  wisely  was  borne  unattended  to  the  dank 
mortuary. 

I  would  have  gone  with  it,  but  I  had  to  look  after 
Helen. 


WHY   THE   TRAIN   WAS   LATE 

If  we  had  not  elected  to  travel  by  a  train  which 
stopped,  on  the  average,  twenty  minutes  at  each 
station ;  if  the  station-master  had  not  been  the 
proud  possessor  of  a  mongrel  terrier ;  if  the  buffet, 
where  we  ran  for  a  cup  of  coffee,  had  not  scandal- 
ously overcharged  us ;  if  Helen  had  not  brought 
with  her  into  France  a  love  of  all  things  small, 
both  of  children  and  animals — ^this  story  would  not 
have  been  written.  It  is  a  story  of  how  we  nearly, 
through  no  fault  of  our  own,  found  ourselves  in  the 
Courts  for  theft. 

We  were  passing  through  the  perpetual  vineyard 
which  extends  from  the  Rhone  valley  to  Narbonne 
and  had  arrived  at  the  "  southern  Calais,"  Cette. 
The  Httle  port  runs  inland  into  a  mountain  of  wine 
barrels,  and  behind  it  is  an  extensive  stretch  of 
water  used  only  by  light  draught  barges  and  as 
salt  beds.  On  the  narrow  peninsula  between  this 
and  the  sea  stands  the  station  where  we  stopped 
for  over  half  an  hour,  Cette  being  an  important 
town  as  towns  go  in  this  corner  of  France. 

We  ran  for  a  cup  of  coffee ;  the  proprietor  of  the 
buffet,  thinking  us,  perhaps,  too  newly  arrived  to 
have  become  accustomed  to  the  Httle  ways  of  such 
folk,  overcharged  us. 

"  Five  francs,"  he  rapped  out. 

"  My  giddy  Aunt ! "  I  exclaimed.  He  didn't 
understand  that. 


50  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Mon  Dieu^'*  I  continued  vehemently.  "  What 
do  you  think  we  have  come  over  to  France  for,  you 
old  robber  ?  To  be  swindled  into  drinking  vile 
coffee  which  tastes  Hke  the  water  you  cook  your 
abominable  snails  and  frogs  in,  and  then  further 
swindled  into  paying  through  the  nose  for  it  ?  Here's 
two  francs  for  you,  and  be  damned." 

Helen  disUkes  rows,  and  before  I  had  got  half- 
way through  this  eloquence  she  had  shouldered 
her  knapsack  and  disappeared  through  the  door 
on  to  the  platform. 

Some  altercation  followed  inside,  however,  be- 
tween myseK  and  the  proprietor,  until  I  suggested 
that  the  matter  might  be  mutually  settled  by  the 
aid  of  the  poHce,  at  which  point  he  gracefully 
withdrew  from  the  discussion  and  accepted  the 
francs. 

I  left  the  accursed  building  to  find  Helen  fondling 
a  dog. 

It  was  an  ugly  dog,  so  hopelessly  mongrel  that  not 
for  generations  could  it  have  had  what  I  beheve 
is  termed  pedigree.  Only  a  complete  remodelling 
could  have  made  it  even  presentable. 

"  It  has  such  sympathetic  eyes,  poor  darling," 
murmured  Helen. 

"  Where  did  you  pick  it  up  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  was  running  about  the  platform  and  under 
the  carriage  wheels,  little  pet  " — ^here  it  was  treated 
to  a  kiss  on  its  nose — "  Let's  take  it  into  the  com- 
partment with  us.  There's  still  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  the  train  starts." 

With  Helen  a  word  is  a  deed.  She  was  already 
settling  herself  in  a  comer,  feeding  the  dog  in  her 
lap.  So  successful  was  she,  indeed,  that  in  a  few 
minutes  the  brute  had  curled  himself  up  and  was 
fast  asleep,  Helen,  meanwhile,  playing  the  minister- 
ing angel  by  keeping  the  flies  off  him. 

I  strolled  up  and  down  the  platform  until  within 


WHY  ^THE  TRAIN  WAS  LATE  51 

a  few  minutes  of  our  time  of  departure,  when  I 
stood  near  the  compartment  door. 

"  You'd  better  put  him  out  now,"  I  said  to 
Helen. 

"  Just  leave  him  a  minute  or  two  longer,"  she 
begged.  "  They  always  warn  you  when  they're 
going  to  start." 

A  railway  official  was  strolUng  up  the  train ;  it 
appeared  to  me  that  he  was  looking  for  something. 
However,  I  paid  very  little  attention,  as  I  needed 
all  my  wits  about  me  to  light  French  tobacco  with 
French  matches. 

A  couple  of  minutes  later  a  second  railway  official 
made  his  way  along  the  platform :  he  also  appeared 
to  be  looking  for  something.  A  few  compart- 
ments below  ours  he  dropped  on  his  knees  and  peered 
underneath  the  wheels  of  the  train.  He  kept  this 
attitude  for  some  time — until,  indeed,  passengers 
began  to  collect  round  him.  Then  he  rose  and  con- 
tinued his  walk,  finishing  up  by  looking  under  the 
engine. 

Two  others  followed.  .  .  . 

By  this  time  we  were  due  to  leave,  but  it  appeared 
that  the  guard  also  had  been  pressed  into  the  mys- 
terious search.  Passengers  up  and  down  the  train 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  what  was  happening. 
It  was  all  very  exciting  ;  but  as  the  officials  re- 
mained reticent  as  to  its  object,  no  one  could  really 
help  much.  We  contented  ourselves  with  furtive 
glances  in  every  direction,  and  finally  at  one  another. 
None  of  us  knew  what  we  were  likely  to  find — a 
bomb  or  an  anarchist  or  a  disguised  camel.  We 
just  looked  and  wondered,  and  grew  more  and  more 
uneasy. 

There  was  shouting  in  the  distance,  and  from  the 
station  offices  emerged  an  irate  man  very  officially 
attired  and  bubblmg  with  indignation.  We  dis- 
covered he  was  the  station-master. 


52  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  ...  if  you  don't  soon,  I  will  have  the  whole 
lot  of  you  sacked,"  we  heard  him  shout. 

The  searchers  redoubled  their  efforts  under  his 
wrathful  eye.     His  watch  was  in  his  hand. 

"  Five  minutes  late  already,"  he  snorted  as  he 
passed  us. 

On  his  journey  up  the  train  he  did  everything 
that  the  others  had  done  already.  He  looked  under 
the  carriages,  clambered  up  on  to  the  roof,  dodged 
from  one  platform  on  to  the  other.  All  in  vain : 
he  grew  almost  beside  himself. 

"  I  will  search  every  compartment,  every  passen- 
ger, if  necessary,"  he  muttered. 

He  whistled  loudly,  collected  the  searchers, 
and  then  entered  the  first  compartment.  He 
appeared  again  in  a  short  time,  dumbfounded. 
He  entered  the  second.  He  repeated  the  process 
three,  four,  six,  a  dozen,  twenty,  twenty-seven 
times.     Then  he  came  to  our  compartment. 

I  heard  a  bellow,  a  ferocious  barking,  Helen's 
voice  raised  in  seK-defence.  Pushing  past  the 
station-master's  guard  of  honour,  1  went  to  the  rescue. 

"  You  were  going  to  steal  him.  You  were 
stopping  the  train.  I  will  have  the  law  on  you," 
stormed  the  station-master. 

"  We  were  doing  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  answered. 
"  Let  me  explain." 

"  And  keep  the  train  back  still  more.  Get  out 
while  I  send  for  an  agent, — Henri,"  he  called  to 
one  of  his  minions,  "  fetch  an  agent  I  " 

"  Oti%  M'sieu.^'     Henri  shambled  off. 

"  We  refuse  to  get  out,"  I  said  :  his  manner  had 
irritated  me.  "  We  don't  want  to  steal  your  dog 
— ^we  both  think  it  extremely  ugly.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  we  were  preventing  it  from  getting  run  over 
by  walking  on  the  line." 

"  Listen  to  what  they  say.  Do  you  believe 
them  ?  "  shouted  the  station-master. 


WHY  THE  TRAIN  WAS  LATE  53 

"  No,  M'sieu^''  chorused  the  staff.  It  was  a 
comic-opera  sort  of  chorus  in  its  pat  delivery. 

There  was  a  crowd  round  the  carriage,  of  course, 
and  this  the  station-master  harangued  until  the 
arrival  of  the  law.  He  became  jubilant  when  he 
saw  us  face  to  face  with  Justice. 

The  agent  began  by  pulUng  out  a  note-book, 
and  picking  his  teeth  with  its  pencil. 

The  station-master  explained  the  situation  at 
some  length :  I  followed  more  tersely  with  my 
version. 

''  It's  a  pity  the  dog  can't  talk,"  remarked  Justice 
thoughtfully. 

The  station-master  urged  Justice  to  the  extremest 
limits  of  the  law.  Justice  explained  his  powers  in 
deaHng  with  the  crisis  that  had  arisen  and  apologised 
for  not  being  able  to  do  all  that  M.  le  Chef  de  Gare 
wished  in  the  matter.  The  station-master  implored 
him  to  do  what  he  could :  Justice  promised  solemnly. 
He  approached  us. 

"  You  are  aware  that  you  have  seriously  delayed 
the  train  ?  "  he  began. 

Helen  replied  that  the  train  certainly  did  seem 
somewhat  late  in  starting. 

"  M.  le  Chef  de  Gare,"  he  continued,  "  was 
sending  his  dog  by  this  train  to  Narbonne :  otherwise 
it  would  not  have  been  missed." 

Helen  interrupted  with  a  repeated  version  of  her 
intentions.     Justice  waved  them  aside. 

"  I  must  ask  your  names,"  he  said,  sucking  his 
pencil  afresh  and  spreading  himself  for  writing. 

"  Johnson,"  I  replied. 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"  Johnson,"  I  repeated. 

This  seemed  to  increase  his  perplexity. 

"  Spell  it,  please,"  he  said. 

I  did  so — three  times  before  he  was  satisfied  with 
the  result. 


54  AMONG  FEENCH  FOLK 

"  Address  ?  " 

"  No  fixed  abode,"  I  smiled. 

"  But  that  is  silly,"  he  answered.  "  You  must 
have  an  address,  you  know." 

"  Poste  Restante  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  won't  do,"  he  repHed,  without 
so  much  as  the  flicker  of  an  eyehd.  Then  an  idea 
struck  him. 

"  What  about  your  passport  ?  "  he  said. 

I  showed  it  him.  He  fumbled  down  it  until  his 
eye  caught  something  resembling  a  name. 

"  Qu'est  ce  .^  "  he  exclaimed  triumphantly. 

"  Walthamstow,  Essex."  Laboriously  he  wrote 
it  down. 

"  Et  pour  Madame  ?  " 

"  Northampton."     More  laborious  writing. 

He  had  written  down  our  places  of  birth  ! 

"  You  may  proceed  now,  M'sieu,  Madame.''^  He 
bowed  to  us  poHtely.  "  Father,  come  and  we  will 
talk  over  the  matter." 

And  so  he  left  with  the  station-master — and  the 
dog. 

The  train  gave  a  jubilant  whistle  as  it  at  last 
steamed  out  of  the  station. 


VI 

AGE   AND   YOUTH 


To  be  "  dans  une  purde,^'  is  to  be  in  a  very  bad  mess. 
To  find  oneself  benighted  on  a  strange  road  is  to 
be  in  such  a  mess  indeed.  We  were,  through  the 
fault  of  a  villager  who  had  sadly  under-estimated 
the  distance  to  the  next  village,  properly  "  dans 
une  purde^ 

A  great  red-wine  sunset,  whose  crimsons  and 
purples  were  almost  beyond  belief,  had  attracted  us 
out  of  the  village  of  Lezignan,  near  to  Narbonne. 

"  How  far  to  the  next  village  ?  "  we  had  asked  a 
wayside  lounger.     He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Three  kilometres,  perhaps,"  he  answered. 

He  must  have  been  used  to  covering  the  distance 
along  this  old  Roman  road  in  a  cart :  his  three 
kilometres  lengthened  into  miles,  and  even  further. 
The  sunset  died  away  and  the  heavy  indigo  sky 
above  it  began  to  shower  down  cold  rain — our  first 
touch  of  "  weather "  for  many  a  long  day.  We 
pulled  up  our  collars,  adjusted  our  knapsacks  and 
trudged  on.  It  was  Helen  who  first  saw  the  light 
gleaming  through  the  rain. 

"  I  don't  care  what  it  is,"  she  asserted.  "  We're 
going  to  stop  there  the  night." 

In  due  course  we  reached  it — a  tiny  lamp 
flickering  outside  a  barred  gate.  By  groping,  we 
discovered  a  bell-handle. 

We  had  to  wait  for  some  time  even  after  the  last 


56  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

mournful  echoes  of  the  bell  had  died  away.  Then 
slowly  the  door  opened,  creaking  on  its  heavy 
rods,  and  there  appeared  an  aged  nun  carrying  a 
lantern.  She  put  the  lantern  to  our  faces  and 
gently  inquired  our  business. 

"  We  ask  shelter  for  the  night,"  said  Helen. 

*'  We  cannot  give  shelter  to  Messieurs,"  rephed 
the  old  lady.  "  To  you,  Madame,  but  not  to  your 
husband." 

"  But  there  is  no  other  house  for  miles,"  expos- 
tulated Helen,  "  and  we  can't  go  on  further  in  such 
rain.  Couldn't  you  make  an  exception  in  this 
case  ?  " 

The  nun  shook  her  head  reluctantly. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"  Alors "  Helen  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 

moved  a  step  away. 

The  old  soul  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  Tenez,^^  she  said  suddenly.  "  I  will  call  the 
Mere  Supdrieure,     Wait  here,  please." 

She  closed  the  heavy  door  behind  us,  and  leaving 
us  in  the  dark,  trotted  up  the  corridor  with  her 
lantern.  Shortly  afterwards  the  Mother  Superior, 
robed  in  black,  stood  before  us. 

"  You  understand,"  she  said  in  English,  "it  is 
not  allowed  for  us  take  gentlemen  here.  But  I 
have  done  so  once  or  twice  before  on  my  own 
responsibility.  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  take  pre- 
cautions, M'sieu  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  I  replied.  "  It  is  good  of  you  to 
have  me." 

"  It  is  a  bad  night  outside,"  she  replied,  "  and 
a  charity  to  have  you  within." 

Leaving  Helen  standing  at  the  entrance,  she  led 
me  along  a  corridor  into  a  tiny  whitewashed  cell 
where  was  a  bed  which  she  made  with  her  own 
hands.     A  crucifix  hung  on  the  wall. 

"  I  wlQ  bring  you  some  soup,"  she  said.     When 


AGE  AND  YOUTH  67 

she  had  done  this  she  left  the  room,  locking  the 
door  after  her. 

I  saw  Helen  next  morning.  "  How  did  you  get 
on  ?  "     I  asked  her. 

"  I  spent  the  best  night  of  my  life,"  she  repHed, 
"  in  a  bed  that  was  hard  yet  soft,  in  a  room  bare 
yet  furnished,  and  after  a  supper  meagre  yet  satis- 
fying. If  I  had  not  married  you  I  fancy  I  could 
almost  have  become  a  nun." 

"  Sleep  well  ?  "  I  continued. 

"  Until  six  this  morning,  when  I  heard  the  sisters 
shuffling  along  the  corridors  to  chapel.  I  felt  I 
ought  to  be  going  with  them." 

"  And  didn't  you  ?  "  I  asked  in  mock  surprise. 

"  You're  a  cruel  man  to  expose  my  weaknesses 
like  that,"  she  replied,  pouting.  "  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  got  up  when  I  heard  them  coming  back." 

"  You,  twenty-five,  and  they — how  old  ?  "  I 
persisted. 

"  Ever  so  old,  I  should  think,  by  the  way  they 
walked,"  she  answered. 

I  asked  the  Mother  Superior  how  I  was  to  repay 
her  hospitality. 

"  You  could  do  so  in  money,"  she  replied,  "  but 
I  am  going  to  ask  of  you  something  harder.  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  work  for  us  :  we  have  something 
a  man  can  best  do." 

I  think  that  day  ranks  among  the  happiest  of 
my  life,  working  for  the  old  nuns  at  what  they  could 
not  have  done  for  themselves,  to  earn  a  night's 
lodging.  I  do  not  know  to  what  Order  they  belonged ; 
nor  do  I  care.  Charity  and  kindness  were  their 
only  thoughts. 

Until  midday  I  lopped  trees  in  the  quaint  over- 
grown garden  behind  the  convent  buildings.  At 
one  time  those  in  the  Uttle  chapel,  which  was  the 
one  room  accessible  to  all,  seemed  to  chant,  in  their 
quavering  voices,  in  imison  with  the  creaking  of 


58  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

my  saw.  But  there  were  always  one  or  two  at  the 
foot  of  the  tree  inquiring  progress  and  offering 
encouragement.  In  the  afternoon  I  tossed  hay 
on  to  a  tiny  cart  pulled  by  a  donkey  and  stored  it 
in  a  miniature  loft  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  Helen 
spent  her  time  washing  our  bed-clothes  of  the 
previous  night. 

But  during  the  middle  of  the  day  neither  of  us 
was  allowed  to  work.  Two  chairs  were  placed  for 
us  beneath  the  trees,  and  in  these  we  rested  until 
it  should  become  cooler. 

"  You  may  smoke,"  said  one  of  the  sisters  to  me, 
with  a  sympathetic  smile. 

It  was  then  that  Sister  Martha  from  Ireland 
hobbled  up  to  us. 

"  Sure  and  I've  been  wanting  to  talk  to  ye  ever 
since  ye  came  here  last  night,"  she  chattered.  "  It's 
good  to  be  able  to  speak  in  yer  own  native  tongue, 
so  it  is.  An'  many  a  year  it  is  since  we've  enter- 
tained English  people  here." 

"  You've  been  here  a  good  many  years  yourself  ?  " 
I  suggested. 

"  Near  thirty  in  all,"  she  repHed,  "  an'  it's  a 
mortal  time  when  ye  reckon  it  up  on  end.  The 
newest  of  us  is  here  well  over  ten  years.  We  come 
here  to  die." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  were  in  Ireland  ?  '* 
asked  Helen. 

The  old  Irish  woman  smiled  sadly. 

"  Not  for  more  years  than  I'd  care  to  confess  to 
ye,  me  dear.  Its  tragedy  goes  on,  they  tell  me, 
without  my  presence,  and,  sure,  I  can't  help  it,  an' 
I  would,  God  aiding  me." 

For  a  moment  a  far-away  look  of  yearning  came 
into  her  dear  old  face. 

"  You  won't  think  I'm  foolish,  now,  but  d'ye 
happen  to  have  a  bit  of  shamrock  about  ye  ?  " 

By  some  streak  of  superstition  I  carried,  through- 


AGE  AND  YOUTH  59 

out  the  war,  a  four-leaved  shamrock  in  my  pocket- 
book.     I  carried  it  still. 

"  Take  it,"  I  said,  offering  it  to  her.  ''  May  it 
bring  you  the  happiness  it  has  always  brought 
me." 

The  old  soul's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  clutched 
the  flower. 

"It's  wrong  of  me,  I  know,  to  take  it,"  she  said, 
the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks.  "  But  it 
does  me  heart  good  to  see  it  over  again,  so  it  does. 
Ye  mean  ye  don't  want  it  now  ?  " 

"It's  for  you,"  answered  Helen. 

"  Sure,  I've  no  business  to  have  it,"  muttered 
the  old  nun  ;  but  she  hurriedly  placed  it  between 
the  leaves  of  a  devotional  book,  and  smiled 
bravely. 

"  I've  got  work  to  do,"  she  said,  and  hobbled 
away  happy. 

While  I  was  haymaking,  I  watched  the  work  of 
the  convent  progressing.  A  few  nuns  were  with 
Helen,  washing  clothes  and  hanging  them  out  on 
a  long  line  to  dry  in  the  bleaching  sunlight ;  others 
were  sewing  in  shady  corners  ;  a  few  carried  their 
devotional  books  into  the  shade  of  the  trees.  There 
was  scarcely  a  sound  to  be  heard  :  a  motor  passing 
along  the  high  road  seemed  to  be  in  the  distance. 

With  evening,  we  all  assembled  in  the  chapel : 
it  made  no  difference,  the  Mother  Superior  assured 
us,  that  we  were  not  Catholics — our  presence  was 
none  the  less  welcome.  Then  we  prepared  our 
packs  for  departure. 

"  Good-bye,"  I  said  to  the  Mother  Superior. 
"  We  are  both  grateful  for  your  hospitahty." 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  answered  gently. 

The  sisters  pressed  round  us  to  bid  us  God-speed. 

"  Good-bye,  and  God  bless  ye  both,"  repeated 
Sister  Martha  for  the  tenth  time.  "  Sure,  ye've 
made    one  old  soul  very  happy,  so  ye  have.     I'll 


60  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

be  praying  for  ye  both  for  many  a  long  day  " — 
and  then,  with  a  sigh — "  An'  I  never  thought  to 
be  glad  to  see  an  Enghshman  before  I  died." 


We  approached  Carcassonne  as  one  might  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  see  a  Daguerreotype  of  one's  ancestor. 
The  old  walled  Cite  had  been  restored  only  into  a 
semblance  of  life.  It  was  part  of  the  gigantic 
backwater  of  the  uselessly  picturesque — the  relic 
of  a  bygone  age,  whose  utility  had  long  since  passed 
— a  dead  city  preserved  only  for  inquisitive 
visitors. 

And  instead,  we  found,  within  these  very  walls, 
the  City  of  Youth.  There  were  young  things 
just  catching  their  first  chubby  gUmpse  of  the 
green  world ;  there  were  young  things  of  seventy 
whose  conversation  rested,  not  on  their  ailments, 
but  on  the  adventures  they  were  yet  to  have. 
Nobody  grew  old  in  Carcassonne — even  the  fourth 
generation  of  the  Massios  family  was  almost  sprightly 
at  eighty-five,  with  a  subtle  palate  in  wine  and  a 
keen  nose  for  a  good  tobacco. 

I  count  him  the  fourth  generation  because  one 
must,  of  course,  begin  with  Mimi,  aged  five  and  a 
half — on  no  account  forget  the  half,  please — who 
was  by  far  the  most  important  of  any  of  them. 
Mimi's  mother  had  died  two  years  previously, 
during  an  influenza  epidemic,  and  her  father  was 
an  officer  in  the  French  Army  of  Occupation  on 
the  Rhine,  but  Mimi  Hved  in  the  height  of  luxury 
with  her  grandmother,  the  widow  Massios,  who 
kept  a  delicious  little  pastrycook's  shop.  While 
Mimi,  therefore,  was  the  coveted  companion  of  the 
young  youngsters,  her  octogenarian  great-grand- 
father, who  looked  in  daily  at  his  daughter's,  was 
courted  by  the  youngsters  of  his  own  age.  The 
widow,  meanwhile,  baked  her  goodies  contentedly 


AGE  AND  YOUTH  61 

in  a  miniature  oven  in  the  kitchen  and,  I  suspect, 
kept  back  a  proportion  for  both  children. 

One  has  not  much  choice  of  feeding  estabUsh- 
ments  within  the  old  city ;  and  the  hotel  being 
reserved  almost  exclusively  for  the  nouveaux  riches, 
we  had  no  difficulty  in  discovering  the  widow 
Massios. 

Her  face,  which  in  profile  was  more  like  a  good- 
natured  Pomeranian  than  anything  I  have  seen, 
beamed  in  reply  to  our  request  for  an  omelette. 

Then  Mimi  pulled  back  the  curtain  communicating 
between  the  shop  and  the  kitchen. 

"  Bonjour,  Madame,^  ^  she  whispered,  and  put 
her  hand  into  Helen's.  From  that  time  they  were 
firm  friends. 

So  after  lunch  we  took  Mimi  for  a  walk  and  Mimi 
introduced  us  to  Fanlair,  the  six-weeks-old  puppy 
whose  only  joy  was  in  destruction.  We  returned 
later  for  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"  Tai  une  chambre,^^  began  Madame. 

The  man  who  travelled  Europe  with  no  luggage 
but  a  carpet  bag  was  a  lucky — and  wise — fellow. 
We,  too,  shared  his  luck.  Within  ten  minutes  of 
her  tentative  remark,  we  were  installed  in  her  room, 
while  Mimi  waited  to  escort  us  again  for  a  play 
that  was  to  be  the  most  joyful,  irresponsible  game 
we  had  enjoyed  since  we  were  fooHsh  enough  to 
grow  up. 

But  it  was  not  only  through  Mimi  that  we  dis- 
covered the  youth  of  Carcassonne.  Madame 
Massios'  shop  was  the  centre  of  it.  For  there  were 
surprises — 10  centimes  each — which  contained 
sweets  and  medals  and  drawings  and  goodness 
only  knows  what  other  wonderful  things :  there 
were  hectic-coloured  "  strawberries "  at  the  same 
price,  which,  with  careful  mastication,  could  be 
made  to  last  quite  a  long  time  ;  there  were  tiny 
chocolate  animals,  little  packets  of  nougat,  comfits. 


62  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

liquorice  sticks — ^hundreds  of  delights  that  used 
to  bring  the  half-Spanish,  half-French  boys  and 
girls  of  the  Cite  round-eyed  to  the  window. 

We  took  our  meals  in  the  shop,  and  thus  grew  to 
know  the  process  by  heart. 

The  nervous  clank  of  the  door-bell  meant  that 
one  of  the  expectant  crowd  without  had  decided  to 
brave  the  terrors  of  a  pubHc  purchase. 

"  Bonjour,  M^sieu,  Madame  "  meant  that  he  paid 
a  tribute  to  our  vast  age  and  experience,  and  his 
smile,  that  he  knew  us  as  people  who  stood  on  no 
ceremony. 

"  Une  surprise,  s'v'  plait,  M^dame,^^  meant  that 
the  widow  had  bustled  out  of  her  kitchen,  and  plac- 
ing her  fat  hands  on  her  knees,  the  better  to  catch  his 
answer,  had  inquired  kindly,  "  Et  toi,  mon  ami  ?  " 

"  Merci,  Au  r'voi  M'sieu,  M^dame,^'  meant  that 
he  was  throwing  himself  as  fast  as  he  could  through 
the  doorway,  where  he  would  be  caught  by  the 
waiting  crowd  of  children,  and  the  surprise  packet 
switched  from  one  hand  to  another  till  it  had  been 
the  round  of  the  company. 

Then  the  good  widow  would  watch  them  through 
the  window,  beaming  till  her  little  snub  nose  seemed 
almost  to  disappear  in  the  air  and  her  faithful 
dog-like  eyes  to  melt  away  into  nothingness. 

"  lis  sont  tous  hons,''^  she  would  say,  handing  one 
of  the  surprises  for  our  inspection.  "  I  bought 
them  myself  in  the  market  yesterday.  They  are 
wonderful  things — ^look  what  they  contain." 

If — as  happened  sometimes — they  contained  a 
paper  cap,  folded  as  in  our  English  crackers,  she 
would  perch  it  jauntily  on  Helen's  head  and 
regard  the  result  as  an  artist  might  regard  his 
masterpiece. 

Once  she  stuck  a  cap  on  her  own. 

"  One  must  not  grow  old,"  she  said.  "It  is  a 
sin.     One's  duty  is  simply  to  be  good  to  others, 


AGE  AND  YOUTH  63 

and  enjoy  one's  life.  That  should  be  easy  if  one 
could  find  the  right  way." 

Her  own  goodness  to  others  extended  far  beyond 
the  reach  of  her  family.  She  pressed  upon  us 
sweets  and  cakes  to  send  to  Olga  in  Aries.  One 
day  she  beckoned  me  to  her. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  "  there  is  Albert.'  He  is 
fourteen  months,  and  his  father  was  a  prisoner  of 
war  in  Germany.  Give  him  this  packet  of  nougat, 
but  don't  say  where  it  comes  from." 

"  Le  jpHit  Albert,"  received  the  gift  without  em- 
barrassing questions  as  to  its  donor.  Nougat  was, 
apparently,  a  favourite  of  his ;  and  as  he  was 
supported  sturdily  in  his  father's  arms,  he  had  just 
nothing  to  think  about  except  appreciation  of  the 
sticky  sweetmeat. 

"  Au'voi,'''  he  said  when  I  gave  it  him,  tugging 
his  father's  cap  from  the  parental  head  and  waving 
it  in  the  air. 

"  Au^voi,''''  or,  as  it  sounded  rather,  "  Waw-waw," 
was  Albert's  almost  sole  venture,  so  far,  into  French. 
It  had  to  serve  for  many  purposes — for  greeting 
and  farewell,  for  enquiries  as  to  his  age,  his  well- 
being,  the  health  of  his  parents,  and  a  host  of  other 
important  questions.  But  if  you  asked  him, 
"  Comment  fappelles-tu,  wx)n  petit .?  "  he  would  look 
solemn  for  a  second — and  was  it  not  indeed  a 
solemn  question  ? — then  chuckle. 

"  Albert,  ai^'voi,"  he  would  say. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

Why  on  earth  do  these  grown-ups  make  one 
think  so  much,  confound  'em  ! 

Silence  ;   then : 

"  La  Citd,  au^voi.^^ 

He  was  one  only  of  the  widow  Massios'  pro- 
teges ;  they  must  have  totalled  dozens.  They 
used  to  congregate  with  their  parents  on  the  open 
ground  in  front  of  the  old  castle  and  discuss  the 


64  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

topics  of  the  day  with  mature  deUberation  and 
occasionally  even  heated  controversy. 

There  was  a  new  arrival  while  we  were  in  Car- 
cassonne ;  and  a  day  or  two  before  we  left,  he  made 
his  first  wizened  appearance  at  the  Meeting  of  the 
Elders. 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  come  from  and  what, 
in  Heaven's  name,  do  you  mean  by  intruding  on 
us  here  ?  "  asked  dozens  of  pairs  of  baby  eyes  as 
plainly  as  if  everyone  present  had  shrieked  it  out  at 
the  top  of  his  tiny  voice. 

The  new  infant,  however,  was  not  to  be  outdone. 

"What  a  lot  of  old  frumps  ! "  he  exclaimed  to  him- 
self.    "  Why,  they're  most  of  'em  getting  teeth  !  " 

Which  was  true :  many  of  them  were  getting 
teeth.  So  that  the  new  arrival  at  the  one  end  of 
the  scale  and  Grandpa — or  rather  Great-grandpa 
— at  the  other  were  truly  the  youngest  inhabitants 
of  the  Cite. 

"  Never  had  a  day's  illness  in  my  life,"  croaked 
the  old  man,  as  he  hobbled  along  one  morning  by 
my  side.  "  What  I  say  is — don't  ever  think  about 
growing  up  and  getting  old.  If  j^ou're  going  to 
die  young,  well,  thinking  about  it  won't  put  off  the 
day.  Eat  and  drink  well,  sleep  well,  work  hard  in 
the  air,  and  don't  worry  about  what  you  can't 
alter.  And  keep  out  of  towns — ^they  make  me 
ache  all  over." 

He  smacked  his  lips  in  hearty  enjoyment  of  his 
own  philosophy. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  young  place,  is  the  Cite,"  he  said. 
*'  Living  on  top  of  a  hill  makes  you  healthy,  and 
watching  the  visitors  who  come  to  see  the  walls 
makes  you  fat  with  laughing.  I  can't  see  them 
quite  so  well  as  I  used  to  be  able  to,  but  my  hear- 
ing is  as  good  as  ever,  and  some  fine  days  I  sit 
myself  in  a  corner  and  listen  to  'em.  It's  as  funny 
as  can  be." 


AGE  AND  YOUTH  65 

He  had  to  support  himself  against  a  wall  before 
he  completely  recovered  from  his  humorous 
memories. 

"  There's  Uttle  Mimi,  now,"  he  continued.  "  She's 
going  to  school  and  growing  up.  School's  good, 
but  somehow  no  one  remains  young  there.  They 
stick  'em  in  rooms,  and  not  in  the  fields.  Schools 
weren't  meant  for  this  place ;  we're  all  too  happy 
for  'em.  Come,  here's  Bioult's  cafe :  we  might 
have  a  glass  of  wine,  don't  you  think — while  we're 
all  young  together  ?  " 

m 

It  was  pecuUarly  fitting  that  while  we  were  in  the 
City  of  Youth,  there  should  have  been  celebrated  the 
Feast  of  France's  youngest  heroine,  Jeanne  d'Arc.  It 
was  fitting  that  we  should  take  our  part  in  what 
amounted  to  the  apotheosis  of  all  things  young  in  this, 
perhaps  one  of  the  few  cities  which  Jeanne  d'Arc, 
if  she  could  return  to  earth,  would  recognise  as 
famihar  in  structure.  It  mattered  little  that  the 
day  was  wet,  or  what  festivities  were  taking  place 
at  Orleans  or  other  towns  more  particularly  conse- 
crated to  the  Saint :  these  in  the  old  thirteenth- 
century  Cite  of  Carcassonne  were  simple,  sincere, 
and  bubbling  over  with  the  joyous  Springtime. 

Of  course  the  town  was  decorated  with  countless 
bits  of  coloured  stuff  that  had  been  saved  in  the 
houses  for  years — the  last  time  many  of  them  were 
displayed,  we  were  told,  was  at  the  signing  of  the 
Armistice — the  reprieve  of  Youth.  Although  the 
war  is  still  very  near  to  one  everywhere  in  France, 
Carcassonne  forgot  it  on  this  day,  except  for  the 
salvos  of  artillery  with  which  she  opened  the  Cele- 
bration of  Youth — an  ungentle  reminder  of  events 
best  left  to  rot  on  their  own  dung-heaps. 

Of  course,  too,  everyone  dressed  in  his  best,  and 
turned    up    at    the    Httle   church   of    St.    Nazaire 


66  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

punctually  to  thank  God  for  his  own  strength  and 
heartiness.  Even  the  old  dames  of  the  village,  in 
their  black  dresses  and  white  lace  caps,  put  on  an  air 
of  extra  sprightUness  for  the  occasion.  The  kiddies, 
down  to  Albert,  rambled  familiarly  about  the  old 
building  throughout  High  Mass.  There  was  a 
choir  of  fifty  children  hidden  behind  the  altar, 
whose  fresh  young  voices  put  new  heart  and  zest 
into  the  old  service,  which  always  retains  its  hold 
on  the  emotions  of  men.  The  town  band,  which 
had  escorted  the  Town  Council,  well  sheltered  under 
family  umbrellas,  to  the  Church,  performed  lustily 
during  the  anthems  as  if  to  emphasise  the  fact  that 
they,  too,  were  young. 

The  celebrant  priest  had  no  need  to  add  any 
emphasis  of  his  own  juveniUty  ;  his  sixty-odd  years 
had  left  him  still  eager-eyed  and  vigorous  ;  but  he, 
too,  seemed  to  let  the  years  drop  from  him  as  he 
spoke  to  his  flock  from  the  altar  rails  of  the  heroism 
of  France's  most  popular  national  saint.  His  keen 
voice  rose  and  fell  as  he  pointed  the  moral :  his 
arms,  consciously  hampered  by  the  gorgeous  vest- 
ments about  him,  worked  hard  to  drive  home  a 
point  or  expand  an  illustration :  with  his  head 
thrown  back  and  his  eyes  flashing,  he  looked  the 
picture  of  the  Church  MiUtant.  What  he  said 
was  of  indifferent  quality ;  but  to  be  inside  the 
Church  with  its  tri-coloured  altar  below  the  deep 
reds  and  blues  of  the  medieval  window,  to  form 
part  of  the  silent,  reverent  congregation  of  youth, 
made  it  a  proud  thing  to  be  a  Frenchman. 

"  I  wish  I  wasn't  English — almost,"  whispered 
Helen. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked,  surprised. 

"  Didii't  we  burn  Joan  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

"True,"  I  assented.  "But,  'other  times,  other 
manners,'  you  know.  We're  all  friends  now. 
Doesn't  that  take  something  of  the  sting  out  of  it  ?  " 


AGE  AND  YOUTH  67 

"  Or  show  how  silly  it  is  to  make  national  heroes 
of  soldiers,"  she  replied. 

Perhaps  Carcassonne  thought  the  same,  for  on 
that  day  specially,  it  seemed,  the  people  went  out 
of  their  way  to  show  us  little  courtesies  as  visitors. 

"What  does  it  matter  that  you  burned  her," 
they  might  have  said.  "  That's  all  over  and 
done  with  now,  and  much  water  has  passed  down 
the  river  Oude  since,  since  .  .  .  1431,  wasn't  it  ? 
I  never  was  good  at  dates." 

And  so,  as  we  left  the  Church,  everyone  had  a 
"  Bonjour  M'sieu,  M'dame  "  for  us.  Two  dear  old 
things,  family  heirlooms  just  taken  out  of  lavender, 
insisted  on  shaking  our  hands.  A  hearty  farmer, 
who  had  also  attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  Town 
Councillor,  drew  us  aside  and  drank  our  healths 
in  the  good  red  wine  of  the  country.  He  toasted 
us  boisterously  as  Allies  ;  and  then  suddenly  he 
lowered  his  voice. 

"  I  have  one  more  toast  to  give  you,"  he  said. 
"  To  the  League  of  Nations  !  " 

He  drank,  and  then  added  :  "  I  lost  four  sons  in 
the  war.  Down  there  " — indicating  the  new  town — 
"  they  are  holding  military  inspections.  France 
must  be  guarded,  we  know  .  .  .  but  it  must  not 
happen  again." 

"  France  sincerely  believes  in  the  League  ?  "  I 
asked  him. 

"  A  dying  man  clutches  at  a  straw,"  he  repUed. 
"The  League  is  a  tree  that  will  grow:  it  is  very 
well  worth  clutching.  May  France  realise  all  that 
that  means  before  it  is  too  late  !  " 

With  that  he  rejoined  his  friends. 

We  walked  slowly  along  the  narrow  cobbled 
little  alleyways  which  pass  as  streets  in  the  Cite  : 
we  were  both  pondering,  I  think,  over  the  common 
grief  of  Europe  in  her  lost  manhood,  when  the  shrill 
voice  of  Mimi  broke  in,  not  unpleasantly. 


68  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Le  pHit  chien  veut  s'amusery'  she  shrieked, 
bouncing  up  to  us  with  Fanlair  in  her  arms.  There- 
upon we  chased  the  puppy  round  and  round  the 
courtyard  of  the  castle  till  his  Uttle  bellows  squeaked 
with  overwork,  and  Mimi  confessed  herself  out  of 
breath.  What  did  it  matter  that  it  rained  ? — one 
could  only  be  young  once,  and  if  one  were  sufficiently 
irresponsible  one  never  caught  cold. 

In  the  evening  there  was  to  have  been  an  open- 
air  concert  outside  the  walls,  at  which  the  sympathetic 
cure  had  arranged  that  the  artistes  were  to  be  those 
of  his  flock  whom  he  had  married  during  the  year. 
But  the  rain  had  settled  down  into  the  perpendicular 
faU  which  indicates  its  determination  not  to  go 
home  till  morning.  So  we  loitered  under  an  arch- 
way to  the  accompanying  murmur  of  a  hidden  and 
unsuspecting  loving  couple.  We  had  done  the 
same  in  Paris,  but  here  it  seemed  more  than  ever 
a  part  of  the  Celebration  of  Youth.  The  two, 
we  afterwards  discovered,  had  been  already  married 
over  twelve  months ;  which  proved  conclusively 
that  they  must  have  been  almost  ridiculously 
young ;  for  when  people  grow  up  and  forget  their 
youth  they  quickly  tire  of  each  other.  It  is  only 
children  who  always  see  fresh  things  as  they  walk 
along  the  same  road. 

And  so  these  two  found  it  in  no  way  strange  to 
sit  hand  in  hand  in  the  darkness  and  exchange 
long  kisses,  although  they  had  Hved  together  for 
many  months.  Indeed,  it  seemed  that  their  en- 
joyment was  increased  by  this  sense  of  intimacy ; 
there  was  no  vague,  dark  spectre  between  them. 
I  wonder  whether  Joan  of  Arc,  a  spinster,  imder- 
stood  as  she  watched  them  from  Heaven  ? 


VII 

THE    OPEN  ROAD 


"  Come  to  the  fair,"  cried  Mimi,    "  tout  le  monde 
yva:' 

Now  it  is  a  plain  duty  in  France  to  attend  the 
travelling  fairs  which  halt  for  several  days,  or 
even  weeks,  at  bigger  villages  and  towns.  Helen 
was  always  conscientious :  we  went,  with  Mimi 
tripping  along  like  a  fairy  beside  us. 

"  Look,"  she  cried  in  rapture  as  we  approached 
the  big  boulevard  near  the  Cavalry  barracks. 
"  Ever  so  many  shows  to  watch  and  so  much 
music.  And  Grandma  gave  me  five  francs.  Let's 
hurry." 

I  doubt  whether  Grandma  could  afford  the 
money :  but  she  had  generally  a  habit  of  spoiling 
Uttle  Mimi — and  who  could  help  it  ? — enlivened 
by  periods  of  strictly  enforced  discipline,  during 
which  the  child  went  almost  in  terror  of  her  Hfe. 
It  was  not  that  dear  Mme.  Massios  was  in  the  least 
hard-hearted :  far  from  it :  I  verily  believe  such 
periods  were  intended  more  as  a  salve  to  her  own 
conscience  than  as  a  part  of  a  considered  plan 
for  Mimi's  bringing  up.  Now,  however,  the  mood 
was  relaxed  :  hence  the  generosity. 

In  response  to  Mimi's  command  we  hurried, 
and  at  every  step  the  blatant  music  grew  louder, 
the  shouting  and  bell-ringing  gradually  more  intel- 
hgible ;  the  mass  of  broken  Ught  which  had  swung 


70  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

to  and  fro  among  the  dusty  trees  of  the  boulevard 
composed  into  side  shows  and  tempting  stalls, 
flickering  oil  flares  and  the  small  steady  lamps  in- 
side the  caravans.  The  hurrying  crowd  about  us 
gradually  thickened :  everyone,  as  Mimi  had  said, 
was  going  there. 

Then  we  drew  level  with  the  first  stall :  and  after 
that  a  perpetual  dehght  of  shooting  galleries,  round- 
abouts, strong  men,  houp-las,  mountain  railways, 
headless  lions,  boxing  booths,  sticky  sweetmeats 
made  before  your  eyes,  fat  women  and  anatomical 
museums,  with  such  a  hullabaloo  of  singing,  shout- 
ing, laughing,  screaming,  blowing  of  trumpets, 
banging  of  drums,  grinding  of  organs,  barking  of 
dogs,  as  has  never  been  heard  before  or  since,  except 
in  countless  other  fairs  up  and  down  the  entire 
world. 

In  fine,  it  was  just  a  happy  fair  to  which  all  the 
peasants  thronged  in  eager  enjoyment  and  in 
which  Mimi's  five  francs  were  swallowed  up  in  an 
incredibly  short  time.  For  five  francs  does  not 
go  far  when  one  indulges  in  merry-go-rounds, 
wooden  horses,  and  vivid  sweets. 

Helen,  however,  came  to  the  rescue ;  and  when  she 
was  tired  I  took  her  place  in  attempting  to  tire 
Mimi.  But  the  child  was  out  for  pleasure,  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  we  induced  her  at  length 
to  sit  down  in  a  quiet  comer  to  recuperate. 

We  had  chosen  one  behind  the  caravans,  when  a 
gruff  voice  in  the  darkness  made  us  all  start. 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

"  Rest,"  I  answered.  "  Have  you  ever  taken  a 
child  to  a  fair  ?  " 

"  Moi,  en  effet  I  Why  should  I  do  any  such 
thing  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  you  wouldn't,"  put  in  Helen 
sweetly.  "  What  he  means  to  ask  is  whether 
you've  ever  tried  to  tire  a  child  by  amusing  it  ?  " 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  71 

"As  to  that,  Madame,  I  make  my  own  four 
walk."  (A  cock  tethered  by  one  leg  to  a  wheel  of 
the  caravan  crowed  confirmation  of  the  statement.) 

He  came  into  a  patch  of  Hght — a  big,  humorously 
solid  man,  with  tanned,  lined  face  and  powerful 
chest.  From  where  he  was  he  could  see  us  more 
clearly,  and  apparently  we  embarrassed  him,  for 
he  remained  silent  for  a  moment. 

''I  did  not  know  what  you  were  doing  here," 
he  apologised. 

"  No  harm,  I  hope,"  I  said. 

"  If  Madame  is  tired  she  would  perhaps  prefer 
to  rest  inside,"  he  added,  dragging  off  his  cap  with 
a  rough  politeness.  He  opened  the  door  of  the 
caravan,  in  which  a  Ught  was  burning. 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Helen  and  jumped  into  the 
interior  at  a  single  leap. 

For  a  row  of  burnished  copper  pots,  twinkling 
in  the  lamp-Hght,  hung  along  one  side  of  the  van, 
and  on  the  floor  rested  a  huge  earthenware  pitcher, 
in  which  greens  and  blues  mixed  magically.  A 
Uttle  roll  of  white  bedding  set  off  the  massed  colours 
with  glorious  effect. 

"  How  perfectly  sweet !  Is  it  yours  ?  "  Helen's 
hands  assumed  the  position  of  a  saint  in  rapture. 

"  Madame  is  pleased  ?  "  the  f airman  smiled, 
gratified. 

"  It's  magnificent,"  I  told  him — *'  the  sort  of 
thing  an  artist  longs  to  paint." 

"  M'sieu  is  perhaps  an  artist  ?  " 

"A  showman  like  yourself,  my  dear  feUow, 
who  showed  his  tricks  in  the  pages  of  a  newspaper. 
Shall  we  say,  a  member  of  the  chorus  ?  " 

"  M'sieu  has  perhaps  left  because  he  did  not 
like  it  ?  " 

**  You're  wrong,"  I  rephed.  "  I  loved  it.  Just 
as  you  love  to  give  enjoyment  to  people  in  the  glare 
of  the  hghts,  so  did  I  in  cold  print." 


72  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  It  is  also  hard  work,"  he  assented. 

"  Most  enjoyment  is  !  "  I  said,  thinking  of  Mimi. 

"It  is  good  to  have  one's  friends,"  he  added, 
after  a  pause. 

"  The  people  one  works  with  ?  "     I  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"  The  best  of  fellows,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  We  will  toast  them,"  he  cried,  suddenly  en- 
thusiastic. Out  came  a  bottle  and  some  glasses  : 
and  each  of  us  saw  different  pictures  in  the  purple 
of  the  wine. 

"  You  stay  here  long  ?  " 

"  Three  or  four  days  only,"  he  replied.  "  It  is 
never  worth  while  to  stop  too  long  in  one  place. 
We  shall  come  back  next  year." 

At  this  moment  there  entered  a  small  woman, 
whose  large  earrings  set  off  to  perfection  the  jet- 
black  of  her  hair  and  the  flash  of  her  eyes.  She 
hesitated  a  moment  on  the  threshold  when  she  saw 
us  within. 

"  My  wife."  The  showman's  cap  was  again 
dragged  from  his  head. 

The  smile  with  which  she  greeted  us  lit  up  her 
rather  heavy  features,  so  that  at  the  moment  she 
was  almost  beautiful.  Then  she  looked  reproach- 
fully at  her  husband. 

"  M'sieu  and  Madame  are  welcome,  but,  you 
know,  Rene,  the  van  is  very  untidy " 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  interrupted  Helen. 

She  smiled  again  and  drank  some  wine. 

"  We  are  not  doing  so  well  to-night,"  she  said, 
addressing  her  husband.  "  You  had  better  Uven 
things  up." 

He  slouched  out  of  the  door  into  the  dim  and 
flickering  darkness. 

"  He  can  always  make  things  go,"  she  told  us. 
"  He  can  talk  so  as  to  amuse  people." 

"  Which  stall  is  youirs  ?  "  asked  Helen. 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  73 

"  We  have  the  shooting  gallery,"  repUed  the 
woman.  "  It  has  been  popular  lately.  And  Rene 
makes  people  come  to  it :  he  has  so  many  tricks. 
Some  of  them  return,  year  after  year,  to  hear  him 
talk.  He  bullies  them,  teases  them,  cajoles  them. 
They  love  it." 

Outside,  the  breeze  carried  occasional  sentences 
of  the  talented  Rene. 

'* .  .  .  better  than  that  .  .  ."  he  was  shout- 
ing, ".  .  .  didn't  they  teach  you  better  than  that 
in  the  Army  ?  Aim  at  the  camel — that's  big 
enough  .  .  .  Another  miss  !  Good  gracious  !  .  .  . 
Ah,  I  see  how  it  is  .  .  .  yes,  in  my  own  courting 
days  she  always  made  me  nervous  .  .  .  Look  the 
other  way,  my  girl,  so  that  he  can  aim  better.  The 
poor  boy  is  trembling  .  .  .  Careful,  now  !  Oh, 
EUzabeth,  he  has  missed  again.  You  will  bring 
him  no  luck  !  .  .  .  Not  EUzabeth  ? — ^Irene,  then  ?  ^ 
Agnes?  .  .  .    Well,  they  are  all  pretty  names !  ..." 

There  was  pride  in  his  good  wife's  eyes  as,  later 
in  the  evening,  he  brought  in  the  first  bundle  of 
earnings — dirty  notes,  copper  and  nickel  coins  and 
all  the  expedients — ^stamps  and  tram  passes — ^to  which 
lack  of  small  change  had  at  that  time  put  France. 

"  It  is  thirsty  work,  sacre  nom,^^  he  exclaimed. 

"  And  you  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  If  it  is  not  rude  to 
ask,  where  do  you  go  next  ?  " 

We  shrugged  our  shoulders.  He  broke  into  a 
hearty  laugh. 

"  The  true  vagabond,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Come 
with  us  to  Toulouse." 

"  Shall  we  ?  "  I  asked  Helen. 

"  We  shall  upset  your  arrangements  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  the  wife  kindly. 

"  We  have  a  tent,"  explained  Rene.  "  We  shall 
put  you  in  that." 

"  Heavens  above  !  "  exclaimed  Helen  suddenly, 
"  what's  become  of  Mimi  ?  " 


74  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

n 

Three  days  later  we  bade  farewell  to  the  City  of 
Youth  and  clambered  up  into  Rene's  caravan, 
which  was  in  the  advance  guard,  as  it  were,  of  the 
fair.     The  main  body  left  Carcassonne  the  next  day. 

It  was  not  a  surprising  thing  that  we  had  seen 
nothing  of  his  chil(h*en  on  our  first  visit,  because, 
we  discovered,  they  had  a  habit  of  sleeping  wherever 
they  chanced  to  feel  tired.  The  eldest,  a  sturdy 
youngster  of  twelve,  usually  made  his  bed  in  the 
shooting  gallery  when  the  fair  was  open  and  weather 
permitted.  The  second  boy  slept  with  a  cousin 
who  had  only  one  child  of  his  own,  and  the  third, 
of  whom  nobody  took  any  particular  notice,  did  just 
what  he  jolly  well  pleased.     But  what  about  Baby  ? 

Baby,  it  appeared,  enjoyed  the  prerogative  of 
all  youngest  children  in  being  the  darling  of  her 
parents,  besides  which,  as  the  only  girl,  she  was 
entitled  to  some  extra  consideration.  She  slept, 
therefore,  the  hearty  sleep  of  three  years,  suspended 
in  a  basket  from  the  roof  of  the  caravan.  The 
atmosphere  must  at  times  have  become  somewhat 
thick,  but  Baby  showed  always  a  bright  morning 
face  when  the  basket  was  lowered.  It  is  also  to  be 
remarked,  that  once  she  had  been  put  to  bed,  no 
further  sound  was  heard  from  her ;  from  which  it 
may  be  inferred  that  she  was  in  some  ways  a  model 
child. 

The  day's  programme,  as  we  plodded  the  ninety- 
odd  kilometres  to  Toulouse,  never  varied.  We 
rose  with  the  sun  and  by  half-past  seven  at  the 
latest  the  whole  caravan  had  been  cleaned  and 
polished  like  a  new  pin,  the  old  horses  groomed,  the 
trailer  on  which  the  make-up  of  the  shooting-gallery 
was  carried  fastened  behind  the  dwelling  van  and 
the  night's  camping  ground  left  behind.  Two 
hours'   halt  was  made  in  the  middle  of  the  day 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  75 

when  the  sun  grew  fierce  and  by  dusk  our  tent 
was  pitched  and  we  were  preparing  for  the  night. 

"  You'll  have  to  walk,"  said  Rene  on  the  first  day. 
''  The  horses  have  already  as  much  as  they  can 
carry ;  and  you're  strong  enough." 

So  we  all  walked,  only  Madame  and  Bebe,  both 
of  whom  had  domestic  duties  to  perform,  being 
allowed  in  the  van.  Occasionally  the  boys,  and 
sometimes  Helen,  perched  themselves  on  the  tender, 
but  Rene  had  always  a  sharp  eye  on  such  backsliders, 
and  the  boys  knew  what  it  meant  to  feel  a  flick  of 
his  whip  when  they  rode  too  far.  He  himself  was 
a  silent  soul,  striding  for  mile  after  mile  at  the 
horses'  heads  without  uttering  so  much  as  a  word. 
Perhaps  a  long-drawn  "  Hue  I  "  would  be  now  and 
again  necessary  to  sharpen  the  animals'  wits  ;  then 
Rene  would  lapse  again  into  silence. 

*'  I  need  it  all  at  other  times,"  he  said  when  I 
taxed  him  with  being  no  very  cheerful  companion. 
"  A  man  cannot  go  through  this  world  shouting  at 
the  top  of  his  voice." 

"  Some  men  do,"  I  suggested. 

He  grunted.  "  Tant  pis  pour  eux,''^  he  said. 
"  If  you  talk  you  cannot  think.  I  prefer  a  cigar ettos, 
a  broad  hat  and  a  white  road :  one  can  meditate 
for  long  with  these  three." 

"  On  what  ?  "  I  asked. 

*'  On  the  impertinence  of  asking  unnecessary 
questions,"  he  said  and  spat  into  the  hedge. 

No  other  word  was  uttered  until  we  halted  for 
the  night. 

Rene  came  nearest  to  conversation  when  we  had 
eaten  our  frugal  evening  meal — bread  and  sausage 
usually — and  the  red  wine  had  warmed  his  veins. 

''Tell  me,"  said  Helen  one  evening,  "why  are 
you  going  this  way  ?  " 

"  Madame  means  ?  "  he  asked.  Rene  was  always 
scrupulously  polite  to  Helen. 


76  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Towards  Toulouse,  and  not  towards  Saintes- 
Maries-de-la-Mer  ?  " 

"  We  are  not  gipsies,"  he  replied  with  a  touch 
of  pride,  "  and  we  do  not  go  to  those  gipsy  feasts. 
Their  songs  and  dances  and  rites  are  nothing  to 
us.  We  are  of  pure  Gascon  descent.  The  feast 
of  the  St.  Maries,  they  tell  me,  is  a  curious  sight, 
but  sale.  ..." 

He  puckered  up  his  nose  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
as  he  said  it. 

"  There  are  a  few  in  our  lot  who  go  there  every 
year,"  he  continued.  "  Curiously  enough,  they 
are  the  ones  we  do  not  like." 

"  The  feast  is  a  two-days'  affair,  I  beUeve  ?  "  1 
enquired. 

"  And  nights.  Drinking  and  feasting,  and  not 
often  without  its  tragedy.  They  mount  a  guard 
over  their  shrine,  but  neglect  to  do  so  over  them- 
selves.    A  mixed  lot,  and  sales,  ..." 

Again  the  pucker  of  the  nose  and  expression  of 
disgust. 

"  From  seeing  your  van  I  can  understand  your 
dislike  of  dirt,"  said  Helen. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  home,"  he  replied  proudly. 
"  And  one  can  take  it  where  one  wishes,  with  only 
the  trouble  of  accompanying  it." 

"  I  should  imagine  it  a  better  job  to  be  a  show- 
man in  France  than  in  England,"  I  put  in,  remem- 
bering certain  glimpses  of  English  caravan  life. 

"  Some  years  ago  I  met  some  Englishmen  with 
a  fair,"  replied  Rene.  "  Madame  will  understand 
me  when  I  say  that  they  were  des  gens  fort  droleSy 
par  exempUy 

He  rose  and  yawned. 

"  But  I  must  not  decry  Madame's  countrymen," 
he  said.  "  When  one  is  impolite  one  should  either 
go  to  bed  quietly  or  be  sent  there." 

We  stayed  with  the  fair  in  Toulouse  for  a  week, 


^  THE  OPEN  EOAD  77 

wandering  about  the  dusty  boulevards  and  leaning 
over  the  bridges  which  cross  the  broad  Garonne. 
We  struck  up  an  acquaintance,  too,  with  a  little 
corporal  whose  love  of  absinthe  was  likely  to  be 
his  final  undoing.  He  was  a  well-educated  youth, 
with  a  notable  fluency  in  English  swear- words  ; 
but  when  he  discovered  our  connection  with  the 
fair,  his  sense  of  what  befitted  our  station  in  life 
was  so  grossly  outraged  that  we  saw  no  more  of 
him. 

In  the  evenings  sometimes,  I  was  persuaded  to 
act  as  a  decoy  in  the  shooting  gallery.  My  method 
was  to  form  part  of  the  crowd,  and  then  casually 
to  examine  a  gun. 

"  Go  for  the  camels,"  Rene  had  said  to  me  before- 
hand.    "  You  can't  miss  them." 

There  were,  besides,  metal  Hons,  horses,  dogs, 
cats,  tigers,  leopards,  giraffes,  bulls,  and  even,  I 
recollect,  crocodiles,  serving  as  targets ;  but  Rene 
was  right  when  he  said  that  the  camels  were  the 
easiest  to  hit. 

"  Look,"  he  would  shout  as  I  potted  one  exactly 
in  the  centre  of  the  hump.  "  Look  at  that.  Now, 
if  he  can  do  it,  you  can  hit  a  giraffe  in  the  neck. 
Come  and  have  a  try." 

Usually  the  ruse  would  work ;  and  as  I  retired 
to  make  way  for  more  paying  customers,  a  momen- 
tary flash  of  Rene's  white  teeth  would  tell  me  that 
he  appreciated  that  fact. 

"  What  do  you  want  for  it  ?  "  he  asked  one 
night  when  he  had  done  unusually  well. 

"  Only  to  be  allowed  to  journey  a  few  more 
kilometres  with  you,"  I  answered. 

"  As  far  as  you  like,"  he  replied  with  a  laugh. 

And  so  we  took  again  to  the  westward  road,  arriv- 
ing in  due  course  at  the  village  of  Boussens,  which 
watches  from  a  distance  the  snow-capped  Pyrenees. 
Here  it  was  that  Rene  and  his  fair  took  the  high 


78  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

road,  while  Helen  and  myself  contented  ourselves 
with  the  low  road — ^the  railroad.  It  happened  like  this. 

I  had  played  the  decoy  with  moderate  success 
on  the  first  of  the  three  evenings  the  fair  was  stop- 
ping in  Boussens  :  on  the  second,  things,  in  a  very 
literal  fashion,  hung  fire  considerably.  On  the 
third,  a  crowd  of  youths,  of  whom  Rene  obviously 
had  great  hopes,  gathered  round  the  stall. 

"  It  is  a  trick,"  muttered  one  of  them,  watching 
my  shooting. 

"  Come  yourself,  then,"  cried  Rene.  "  Try  the 
neck  of  the  giraffe." 

The  silly  youth  did  so,  and,  of  course,  failed.  A 
second  fared  no  better. 

"  Look  at  the  guns  he  gives  us,"  said  a  third. 

"  Choose  your  own,  then,"  cried  Rene,  nothing 
daunted.  "  Mes  amiSy  make  way  for  the  M'sieu 
who  would  choose  his  own  gun." 

There  was  a  sheepish  laugh  at  this  ;  but  the  victim 
was  nettled  by  Rene's  amiability. 

"  We  will  come  back  later,"  he  shouted,  as  several 
of  them  left  the  booth. 

Sure  enough,  they  did  so  ;  but  the  first  intima- 
tion we  had  of  their  arrival  was  a  blow  with  a  big 
piece  of  timber,  used  as  a  battering-ram,  which 
knocked  the  lightly-constructed  side  of  the  shoot- 
ing gaUery  completely  in.  With  a  shout  of  triumph 
the  beam  was  wielded  again,  and  in  a  few  seconds, 
it  seemed,  only  a  pile  of  broken  wood  remained, 
over  which  Rene  lay  with  a  damaged  head  and 
sprained  ankle.  His  tongue,  however,  was  in  very 
excellent  working  order. 

He  twisted  himself  into  a  sitting  position. 

"  It  was  you,  you  rogue,"  he  yelled,  pointing  a 
trembhng  finger  at  me. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  repUed.  If 
anyone  had  kicked  me  I  could  not  have  been  more 
surprised. 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  79 

"  You  egged  them  on,"  he  cried. 

"  In  gratitude  for  your  kindness,  I  suppose  ?  " 
I  retorted.    "  Or  in  anticipation  of  further  favours  ?  " 

He  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  turned  to  his  wife, 
who  had  rushed  from  the  caravan  when  the  smash 
occurred. 

"  Have  you  missed  anything  from  the  van  ?  " 
he  cried.     "  These  people  are  thieves  and  robbers." 

The  crowd  gathered  round  the  shouting  invalid 
began  to  show  hostility  to  us. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  they  asked  us. 

"  According  to  our  friend  Rene,  we  are  thieves 
and  robbers,"  I  answered.  "  Bring  a  gendarme 
here,  and  we  will  satisfy  him  as  to  our  identity." 

One  was  soon  forthcoming.  With  much  pom- 
pousness  he  examined  our  passports. 

"  Have  M'sieu  and  M'dame  anywhere  to  sleep 
to-night  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  at  the  moment.  I  don't  think  we  are  very 
popular  tenants  with  our  last  landlord." 

"  I  have  a  bed  which  you  could  use.  If  you 
will  come  with  me  I  will  see  about  it." 

We  thanked  him  in  all  sincerity. 

"  Thieves  and  robbers,"  shouted  Rene,  as  we 
shouldered  our  packs.  He  had  been  carried  inside 
the  caravan. 

"  If  you  miss  anything  you  will  find  us  already  in 
the  hands  of  M,  le  Gendarme,^''  I  cried  back. 

As  we  left,  the  copper  pots  were  twinkling  on  their 
hooks,  and  the  magic  blue-green  pitcher  was 
standing  near  the  doorway,  half  illuminated  by  the 
oil-lamps.  Rene  was  spread  on  the  floor  of  the 
van,  cursing  volubly.  From  up  above,  gently 
swinging  her  basket.  Baby  stared  with  wondering 
eyes  on  the  strange  scene  below. 


VIII 

heart's  desire 


"  Hue,"  cried  the  peasant  driving  his  oxen,  "  Car- 
dinal.  Cardinal ! " — which  means  "  Turn  to  the 
left."  The  patient  beasts  in  the  plough  turned 
obediently  at  the  tap  of  his  stick,  and  continued  their 
monotonous  rotation  of  the  field.  The  peasant 
mopped  his  forehead. 

A  torrid  heat  brooded  over  the  valley  in  which 
Helen  and  I  were  plodding.  To  the  mountains 
clung  dense  black  clouds  of  thunder,  but  as  yet 
the  storm  had  not  broken.  The  birds  were  still, 
the  briUiant  butterflies  which  had  so  far  accom- 
panied us  were  making  for  shelter.  An  unhealthy 
smell  rose  from  the  undergrowth.  The  silence  was 
tense. 

Out  of  this  silence  came  a  vague  low  cry.  We 
could  not  trace  it :  it  seemed  part  of  the  atmosphere. 
We  turned  a  comer.  .  .  . 

She  was  sitting  at  the  roadside  at  a  point  where 
it  crossed  a  patch  of  sparsely-covered  moorland. 
Some  sheep  browsed  about  her :  a  tiny  baby,  so 
still  and  so  tiny  that  it  looked  doll-like,  lay  in  her 
arms  while  her  bent  body  heaved  again  with  her 
sobbing.  She  had  thought  no  one  near ;  and  as 
soon  as  she  heard  our  footsteps,  hurriedly  dried 
her  eyes — smiled,  even. 

Helen,  however,  was  not  to  be  deceived. 

"  You  are  in  trouble  ?  "  she  asked. 


HEART'S  DESIRE  81 

*'  Not  more  than  most,"  replied  the  girl  in  a 
subdued  voice. 

"  Is  baby  ill  ?  " 

*'  No." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "  Nothing,"  she 
answered. 

"  But  you  do  not  cry  for  nothing,"  persisted 
Helen. 

The  girl  gave  a  little  scared  look  and  for  a  few 
minutes  remained  silent.     Then  : 

"  I  cry  for  peace,"  she  said. 

**  From  what  ?  "  Helen  sat  down  in  motherly 
fashion  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  from  everything.  The  world  is  so  cruel. 
I  have  prayed  fervently  to  Our  Lady  of  Consolation, 
but  alas  !  in  vain." 

"  Tell  me  about  it."  Helen's  persuasive  tone 
was  not  to  be  resisted. 

''  Let  me  make  baby  comfortable  first  ...  I 
don't  know  why  I  should  tell  you,  Madame,  but  as 
I  shall  probably  never  see  you  again,  perhaps  it 
doesn't  matter.     How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

"  Eighteen  or  thereabouts." 

*'  Madame  is  discerning.  Yes,  I  am  eighteen. 
And  a  year  or  so  ago  I  married  against  my  parents' 
wishes.  They  live  in  the  same  village  as  I  do,  but 
I  am  forbidden  their  home  until  I  am  of  age.  It 
sounds  little,  but  do  you  know  what  it  means  ?  " 

Helen  shook  her  head.     "  Not  all,"  she  replied. 

"  It  means,  Madame,  that  you  are  outcast  from 
everyone.  Father  is  one  of  the  largest  farmers 
about  here>  and,  of  course,  his  word  is  law.  I  used 
to  be  known  and,  I  believe,  liked.  Now  people 
pass  me  with  scorn.  '  There  she  goes,'  they  say, 
'  she  will  soon  be  moving  to  the  town.'  You  know 
what  they  mean ;  and  I  am  a  respectably  married 
woman. 


82  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  '  Why  could  she  not  have  waited  ?  '  they  say 
...  I  who  waited  so  long.  Is  it  a  strange  thing, 
Madame,  to  fall  in  love  when  you  are  fifteen  ? 
These  older  people  who  know  life  so  well  say  it  is  ; 
but  all  the  same,  I  know  better  .  .  .  much 
better.   ..." 

"  And  your  husband  ?  "  asked  Helen  softly. 

"  He  is  a  man  :  he  can  look  after  himself.  Be- 
sides, he  is  out  in  the  fields  all  day  and  does  not 
see  me  cry.  I  do  try,  Madame — ^I  try  very  hard 
— ^to  be  cheerful  when  I  am  with  him,  but  it  is 
difficult,  sometimes,  when  one  lives  in  a  hovel. 
You  see,  he  is  a  peasant,  and  my  father  was  all  the 
more  incensed  that  I  should  throw  myself  away  on 
such  as  he.  And  when  my  father  is  angry  he  says 
all  sorts  of  things  he  does  not  mean." 

"  Like  Rene,"  I  mused,  wondering  how  far  be- 
hind his  caravan  might  be  ;  for  we  were  only  just 
turning  off  the  main  road  into  the  valley. 

"  And  yet,"  continued  the  girl,  with  a  brave 
smile,  "  I  am  happy,  you  know.  It  is  only  occa- 
sionally that  I  am  weak  enough  to  cry.  But  I  do 
not  think  I  have  deserved  their  sneers — the  village 
folk,  I  mean.  When  I  pass  my  father  in  the  street 
—as  I  can't  help  doing  sometimes — ^he  never  looks 
at  me.  I  think  mother  would,  but  she  is  afraid. 
It  is  so  lonely  and  so  cruel.  ..." 

She  was  again  silent ;  and  then  : 

"  I  only  want  peace,"  she  said.  "  It  is  my  heart's 
desire." 

The  storm  broke,  and  we  took  refuge  in  a  deserted 
cottage. 

"  RvA^''  cried  the  peasant  to  his  oxen,  "  Cardinal, 
Cardinal !  "  and  they  continued  their  monotonous 
rotation  of  the  field.  They  did  not  bother  about 
so  small  a  thing  as  a  storm — they  must  plough  on. 

I  wondered  what  the  girl's  husband  was  doing 
at  the  moment.     It  might  indicate  much. 


HEART'S  DESIRE  83 


We  discovered  our  City  of  Heart's  Desire  near  to 
where  the  exile  girl  had  told  us  her  story. 

A  great  cathedral  broods  over  it,  and  every  house 
is  a  palace.  Only  one  road  approaches  it,  and  this 
cHmbs  steeply  up  the  side  of  the  isolated  hill  on 
which  it  is  built,  so  that  whether  you  be  pilgrim  or 
tourist  or  inhabitant,  you  must  toil  up  its  rough 
surface  alongside  the  ancient  ramparts  and  enter 
by  the  old  gate,  guiltless  now  of  portcullis  or  other 
military  accessory.  Even  before  this  you  must 
have  walked  hard  miles  by  a  stony  road  :  for  Heart's 
Desire  can  be  achieved  only  by  peine  forte  et  dun 
But  as  you  reach  it,  the  mellow  bell  of  the  Cathedral 
will,  as  likely  as  not,  toll  out  a  solemn  and  reserved 
welcome  to  you,  as  if  it  were  specially  celebrating 
the  arrival  of  a  friend.  That  it  is  merely  sounding 
the  half -hours  seems  impossible :  its  vibrations 
have  the  confidential  charm  of  a  secret  shared,  an 
understanding  taken  for  granted. 

From  the  Cathedral  cloisters  you  may  see  up  and 
down  the  green  valley  and  over  to  the  blue  fir- 
covered  hillsides — ^perhaps,  here  and  there,  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  snow-covered  Pyrenees.  But  while 
we  stayed  there,  these  distant  views — ^almost,  indeed, 
the  opposite  hills — ^were  shrouded  in  soft  grey 
mountain  mist,  and  we  were  thrown  back  on  to 
the  intimacy  of  the  cloister  itself,  with  its  sarcophagi 
of  priest  and  crusader,  its  deep  cool  well,  its  soft 
relaxing  shadows,  its  exuberant  grass  through 
which  sprang  hosts  of  tiny  flowers.  It  is  not  ten 
yards  from  corner  to  corner,  this  refuge  from  even 
the  green  and  empty  world  of  the  hillsides,  and  the 
merest  whisper  runs  round  its  arches  with  dis- 
approving stridency ;  but  here  we  found  all  the 
drama,  pathos,  and  humour  that  a  busy  life  could 
hold. 


84  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

*'  See  this,"  said  Helen  softly,  pointing  to  the 
carved  capital  of  one  of  the  arches — "  two  monks 
fighting  for  the  possession  of  a  stick." 

"  And  fine,  strong  fellows  they  look,  too,"  I 
said,  "  like  the  one  who  was  birching  his  brother 
monk  in  the  choir-stall  carvings." 

"Is  it  intended  as  humour  or  pathos  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  It's  history,  and  whatever  you  like  to  make 
of  it,"  I  replied.  "  You  might  ask  the  monks  in 
the  little  cell  outside  what  they  think." 

For  outside  the  Cathedral  is  a  small  cell,  attached, 
I  beHeve,  to  a  monastery  at  Toulouse ;  it  contains 
some  eight  or  nine  monks — ^youngsters  most  of 
them — and,  when  the  Cathedral  organ  is  not  play- 
ing, you  may  hear  their  murmured  prayers,  the 
harmonium  in  the  cell  mingling  with  their  boyish 
voices.  Sometimes  they  come  down  to  fetch  water 
or  make  modest  excursions  to  gather  roses  in  the 
village ;  but  at  few  times  do  they  rest  from  their 
labours  of  humiliation  and  praise. 

"I  wonder  why  they  live  in  that  uninteresting 
house,"  I  mused,  "  when  every  other  one  in  St. 
Bertrand  de  Cominges  is  a  reHc  of  the  days  when 
monasticism  was  at  the  height  of  its  power." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  make  them  proud,"  suggested 
Helen. 

That  was  probably  true ;  it  must  make  any 
tenant — except  those  who  actually  inhabit  them — 
proud  to  live  in  dwellings  with  such  a  history. 
For  every  house  is  a  count's  castle  or  bishop's 
palace — ^you  may  see  the  armorial  bearings  of 
their  original  owners  over  any  door  you  choose 
to  look  at.  The  first  two  that  greet  you  as 
you  enter  the  old  city  gateway  bear  the  dates 
1440  and  1549.  Nor  do  you  find  any  touch  of 
restoration. 

"  Can't   you    see   the   gay-coloured   nobles    and 


HEART'S  DESIRE  85 

sombre  priests  going  to  and  fro  in  their  courtyards  ?  " 
whispered  Helen. 

"  Or  the  laden  pack-horses  bringing  up  the  food 
supplies  and  the  crowds  of  chattering  servants 
waiting  to  unload  them  ?  ''  I  suggested,  "  or  the 
silent  men-at-arms  waiting  their  turn  to  defend  the 
city  during  those  rehgious  wars." 

"  Then,"  pursued  Helen,  "  when  the  original 
nobles  were  dead  and  their  descendants  had  moved 
to  Versailles  and  Paris,  the  small  merchant  owners 
of  these  same  houses — stiff-necked  men,  with  a  quick 
eye  for  a  bargain  ?  " 

"  Imagine  what  the  Revolution  must  have  meant 
to  such  a  place  as  this,"  I  assented.  "  Half  these 
armorial  bearings  have  been  defaced  by  axes  even 
though  their  owners  were  dead  for  centuries. 
And  there's  a  lot  of  damage,  too,  in  the 
Cathedral." 

"  And  now,"  continued  Helen,  "  what  is  left  of 
it  all  ? — empty  shells ;  stables  and  haylofts  where 
there  were  once  feastings  and  masquerades  ;  poor, 
mean-living  people  who  have  not  the  intelligence 
or  the  wish  to  think  beyond  their  own  Uttle  potato 
patches.  Why,  even  the  Cathedral  is  now  only  a 
parish  church." 

Helen's  sohloquy  was  interrupted  at  this  point 
by  the  flutter  of  a  brood  of  chickens  in  the  grass- 
grown  lane.  A  few  yards  away  some  ducks  were 
making  what  use  they  could  of  the  eighteenth 
century  fountain,  whose  jet  of  water  ran  neglected 
into  the  cobbly  gutter.  A  slatternly  woman,  on 
whose  face  was  written  well-founded  suspicion  of 
the  whole  world,  passed  with  a  cheap  enamelled 
jug  of  thin  milk.  The  pale  sun  melted  into  a  cloud 
and  the  mountain  mist  fell  almost  at  once. 

"  I  wonder,"  resumed  Helen,  "  whether  there  is 
any  hope  for  a  place  Uke  this." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 


86  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

*'  Whether  it  wouldn't  be  better  to  pull  it  down 
and  start  afresh.  It's  outlived  its  usefulness  :  it's  in 
the  way — all  except  the  Cathedral,  from  which 
came  Bishops  who  were  Popes  and  Saints  :  they  are 
still  useful,  either  as  warnings  or  as  examples. 
History  may  repeat  itself  perhaps.  But  the  rest 
of  it  ?  " 

"  Would  you  like  it  restored  ?  " 

"  No," — this  emphatically. 

"  Would  you  like  a  modem  town  on  this  site  ?  " 
I  queried. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  repHed  Helen  dubiously. 
"  But  it  seems  such  a  pity." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  This  waste." 

"  It's  no  waste,  surely  ?  "  I  replied.  "  Except 
in  the  sense  that  practical-minded  people  Uke  you 
would  call  any  refuge  a  backwater  and  any  medi- 
tation waste  of  time." 

"  I'm  only  I,  and  I  can't  be  anyone  else,"  pouted 
Helen. 

"  Suppose  you  had  been  severely  battered  by  this 
cruel  old  world,"  I  suggested,  "  wouldn't  you  like 
to  end  your  days  in  such  a  quiet  remote  spot 
as  this,  with  the  Cathedral  bell  to  remind  you 
pleasantly  that  your  troubles  are  over  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  With  the  spirit  of  the  past  around  you  and  the 
children  stretching  out  their  hands  to  the  future  ?  " 

"  But  the  children  would  grow  up  and  leave, 
and  no  one  would  take  their  place." 

"  They  would  come  back — ^in  time." 

*'  Yes,  but  in  what  time  ?  You  want  the  world 
to  stop  for  you." 

"  That's  just  what  it  doesn't  do  here.  In  this 
forgotten  spot  you're  in  All  Time  and  in  No  Time. 
You're  deep  in  the  Midst  of  Time  :  but  it's  so  big 
you  can't  grasp  a  fraction  of  its  size,  and  it  moves 


HEART'S  DESIRE  87 

so  fast  you  don't  see  it  move  at  all.  It  all  seems 
as  silent  and  peaceful  and  awe-inspiring  as  the 
Dream  City  men  eaU  Heart's  Desire." 

'*  Maybe  you're  right." 

There  was  still  a  note  of  doubt  in  Helen's  voice. 


IX 

THE   FIERY   CROSS 


I  WONDER,  if  we  had  always  our  Heart's  Desire, 
whether  we  should  not  be  rather  melancholy  folk, 
because  there  is  something  cloying  in  contentment. 
At  least,  so  Helen  and  I  found  at  St.  Bertrand.  For, 
on  closer  inspection,  it  proved  not  only  a  dead  city 
but  a  withered  city — a  city  of  stunted  human  beings. 
The  postman  who  passed  our  window  once  a  day 
had  a  withered  arm ;  two  men  who  kept  a  ddhit  de 
tahac  had  a  withered  hand  and  a  withered  leg 
respectively  ;  the  children  were  crooked  and  rickety 
and  halt.  As  we  could  not  offer  help,  we  decided 
to  do  the  next  best  thing. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  let's  go,"  exclaimed  Helen 
one  morning.  "  The  sight  of  so  much  avoidable 
suffering  which  one  cannot  cure  is  beginning  to  get 
on  my  nerves." 

So,  in  spite  of  heavy  rain,  we  shouldered  our 
packs,  and  left  the  illusions  of  Heart's  Desire  be- 
hind. Our  original  idea  of  going  to  Luchon,  where 
rich  invalids  foregather  with  those  who  imagine 
themselves  sick,  was  distasteful :  we  made  for  the 
high  road. 

For  the  first  few  miles  it  rained  steadily.  The 
fields  were  deserted.  Once  or  twice  we  passed 
heavy  oxen  dragging  a  farm  waggon,  which  looked, 
like  its  driver,  sodden  and  glum — ^not  even  creaking 
its  way  as  it  does  on  happier  occasions.     We  had  to 


THE  FIERY  CROSS  89 

ford  the  overflow  of  a  brook  which  had  burst  its 
banks  and  was  pouring  over  the  road.  Except  for 
the  monotonous  splash  and  uniform  grey  of  the 
rain  there  seemed  no  sound  and  no  colour  any- 
where. The  mountains  had  gone.  St.  Bertrand 
gone.  Everything  that  was  familiar  had  deserted 
us. 

Gradually  it  cleared.  The  rain  ceased,  and,  as 
the  clouds  lifted,  the  road  stretched  in  front  of  us 
every  kilometre  or  so  marked  with  its  gaunt  wooden 
wayside  cross.  Indeed,  one  measures  distances, 
here,  by  them — "  the  fourth  cross  on  the  right-hand 
side,"  you  will  be  told  when  asking  the  way. 
Women  appeared  in  the  fields.  We  entered  upon 
the  life  of  the  high  road,  and  were  soon  splashed  by 
passing  motors. 

We  put  up  that  night  with  a  good  soul  who  dried 
our  clothes  before  a  blazing  log  fire  on  an  open 
hearth — so  that  the  whole  room  was  pungent  with 
the  acrid-sweet  fumes  of  the  wood — and  set  off  again 
next  morning. 

It  was  still  early  when  we  first  saw  caravans  in 
the  distance.  By  midday  we  had  caught  them  up 
as  they  were  about  to  halt. 

The  last  of  them  had  the  familiar  aspect  of  Rene's. 
The  shooting  gallery,  patched  up  once  more  after 
the  affair  at  Boussens,  was  on  the  tender  and  the 
eldest  boy  walked  behind  it. 

"  Hullo,"  he  said  as  we  called  to  him.  He  had 
his  father's  gift  of  silence. 

Rene  himself  looked  at  us  sheepishly  enough. 
He  was  riding  on  the  front  of  the  van,  his  ankle 
roughly  bandaged.  His  wife  had  taken  his  place 
at  the  horses'  heads. 

"  So  you  have  come  back,"  he  grunted. 

It  was  we,  this  time,  who  preferred  to  keep 
silence. 

During  the  halt  his  wife  drew  us  aside. 


90  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

*'  You  will  forget  what  he  said  at  Boussens  ?  "  she 
asked  us.  "  He  did  not  mean  it.  It  was  a  great 
calamity  to  have  the  gallery  broken  up  as  it  was. 
M'sieu  will  recognise  that." 

"  We'll  let  the  matter  drop,  of  course,"  I  said. 

Rene  seemed  grateful.  At  the  midday  meal  he 
silently  Hfted  his  glass  in  our  direction  and  drank. 
We  followed  suit.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  on 
either  side,  but  the  past  was  healed  in  the 
pledge. 

"  Will  you  come  with  us  ?  "  he  asked  afterwards. 

"  To  where  ?  " 

"Tarbes." 

We  nodded.  We  might  as  well  go  there  as  any- 
where else :  it  mattered  httle.  With  Rene  we 
should  at  least  have  shelter  if  it  reverted  to  bad 
weather. 

The  sun  now,  however,  was  blazing,  and  we  had 
left  behind  the  region  of  shade.  A  great  plain  of 
tough  grass,  thistles,  heather,  broom,  and  other 
useless  beautiful  things,  stretched  about  us :  to 
the  South,  the  snow  on  the  mountains  winked  and 
stared  and  dazzled  against  the  colourless  sky,  and 
the  fir  forests  below,  with  Hghter  green  glades  cut 
through  them  by  the  tree-fellers,  made  one  think 
that  evening  had  fallen  there  prematurely. 

"If  all  this  could  only  be  made  known  to  Eng- 
land," I  said  to  Helen,  "  the  Alps  would  have  a 
powerful  competitor." 

"  With  hoUday-makers  ?  " 

"  Yes.  This  is  richer,  more  concentrated  than 
Switzerland,  without  lacking  anything  of  its  attrac- 
tion. What  a  pity  it's  so  largely  the  preserve  of 
wealthy  invahds." 

"  But  would  you  have  the  place  over-run  as 
Switzerland  is  ?  Switzerland  must  have  been  very 
lovely  in  WilHam  Tell's  time — ^but  now " 

"  It's  good  enough  for  the  people  who  go  there." 


THE  FIERY  CROSS  91 

*'  It  isn't  the  people  I'm  talking  about,  it's  the 
place  itself.     It  loses  its  romance." 

''  That's  sheer  stuff  and  nonsense."  Talk  of 
this  kind,  to  use  an  Americanism,  "  gets  me  riled." 
— "  The  most  romantic  place  I  know  is  Margate 
beach  on  a  Bank  Holiday.  There's  romance 
enough  there  to  charge  one's  mental  accumulator 
for  a  Ufe  time." 

"  True,  but  here's  a  different  kind  of  romance, 
the  kind  that  belongs  to  mountains,  the  romance 
of  soHtude.  It  belongs  specially  to  these  Pyrenees. 
For  centuries  they  have  cut  off  one  country — an 
amazing  country  in  its  good  and  in  its  evil — ^from 
the  rest  of  Europe.  They've  kept  back  influences 
which  would  have  changed  the  course  of  world 
events — if  there  had  been  only  one  pass  in  the 
whole  of  their  length  you  and  I  might  have  been 
leading  very  different  lives.  Now  you're  wishing 
they  could  be  thrown  open  for  the  world  and  his 
wife  to  stare  at.  Don't  you  see  that  you're  tam- 
pering with  the  foundations  of  history — and  not 
only  history,  of  Europe  ?  " 

*'  Most  of  history  has  got  to  be  pretty  consider- 
ably tampered  with,"  I  suggested,  **  so  that  it 
may  not  repeat  itself." 

"  In  wars  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  these  Pyrenees  have  probably  been  the 
means  of  avoiding  more  slaughter  than  any  other 
agency.  They  kept  out  the  Moors.  They've 
worked  well,  my  dear,  for  international  peace. 
Now  let  them  rest  free  from  tourists,  to  enjoy  for 
themselves  their  romance  of  soUtude." 

I  fear  it  is  not  altogether  good  to  be  plastic  in 
the  hands  of  one's  wife. 

During  one  of  our  midday  halts  I  wandered  into 
a  village  church  and  saw  there  the  epitome  of  the 
war.     Before  the  crypt  altar,  in  the  semi-darkness, 


92  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

was  laid  a  wreath  of  withered  flowers  with  a  little 
metal  tablet  "  Protegez  mon  mariy 

I  suppose  some  poor  woman  placed  it  in 
dread  and  longing  and  faith  when  her  husband 
left  for  the  Front :  thousands  of  women  in  France 
did  the  same.  They  heard  of  vague  terrible  hap- 
penings to  other  people's  husbands  ;  but  it  seemed 
impossible  that  anything  could  befall  one's  own. 
"  Mon  mari  "  was  always,  somehow,  different  from 
other  people's.     And  yet  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  if  he  came  back,"  whispered  Helen. 

I  could  find  no  later  wreath  of  thanksgiving  for 
his  return :  perhaps  when  he  turned  the  corner  and 
strode,  worn  but  cheerful,  into  the  house,  ^motion 
was  too  deep  at  first  for  that ;  and  afterwards,  a 
candle,  a  prayer  together,  a  kiss,  a  laugh  and  the 
normal  life  shaped  slowly  again  before  them. 

"  Or  perhaps,"  I  said,  "  he  came  back  mutilated, 
blinded.     Or  a  brief  official  communication ^" 

"  At  any  rate,  we  shall  never  know." 

Which  is  true.  For  we  can  see  only  her  agony 
in  the  flowers  she  left,  and  even  these  will  soon  drop 
into  dust.  But  her  helpless  cry  will  remain,  for  it 
is  written  in  iron. 

On  the  third  day  we  reached  Tarbes,  birthplace 
of  soldiers  from  D'Artagnan  to  Marshal  Foch. 

"  What  an  infernal  hole,"  I  exclaimed.  "  Its 
only  purpose  seems  to  be  the  manufacture  of 
artillery — and  that  is  the  purpose  of  the  Devil. 
Come  away." 

n 

We  left  Tarbes  by  the  first  road  that  presented 
itself  and  sheltered  that  night  in  a  grey  stone, 
grey-tiled  village  surrounded  by  tall  trees  in  a  sUght 
dip  of  the  hills. 

It  happened  that  Anton  Peresc  and  his  donkey 
were    setting    out    the   following   afternoon   on   a 


THE  FIERY  CROSS  93 

journey,  and  as  a  portion  of  our  road  to  Where  you 
Will  was  his,  we  hung  back  for  him.  But  Anton 
was  a  glummer  travelling  companion  even  than 
Rene ;  his  deep-set  eyes  always  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing back  into  themselves.  A  Spanish  curse  levelled 
at  the  donkey  was  all  the  conversation  he  vouch- 
safed and  a  grunt  and  a  touch  of  his  tight-fitting 
Basque  cap  the  only  parting  when  we  left  him. 

So  we  trudged  on  and  on.  A  sharp  shower 
blotted  out  for  a  time  all  except  the  grey  road ; 
then  evening  set  in,  misty  and  cold.  Suddenly 
Helen  stopped. 

As  if  suspended  from  the  sky,  and  waxing  and 
waning  in  brilliance  as  the  mists  drifted  across  it, 
hung  a  fiery  cross.  In  a  moment  of  exceptional 
clearness  it  seemed  to  attach  itseM  to  an  immense 
black  hill.     One  or  two  tiny  lights  flickered  below  it. 

"  Lourdes,"  said  Helen. 

I  suppose  we  are  very  much  in  the  position  of 
thousands  of  others  whom  the  war  has  left  some- 
what scarred  in  matters  of  faith.  To  indulge  in  a 
Credo  would  be  somewhat  irrelevant  in  these  notes  : 
it  would  need  so  many  exceptions  and  qualifications 
that  most  of  it  can  be  put  into  the  single  phrase 
that  we  are  groping  for  an  ordered  creed  while  the 
essence  of  religion  is  still  within  us.  We  do  not 
look  for  any  particular  church  or  "  ism,"  but  for  a 
creed  that  shall  satisfy  ourselves  even  if  it  satisfies 
no  one  else.  Is  not  religion  the  most  intimately 
personal  and  individual  of  all  man's  affairs  ? 

To  us,  therefore,  as  we  walked  towards  Lourdes, 
it  seemed  that  the  fiery  cross  was  symbohcal 
not  of  any  particular  faith  or  behef  but  of  the 
core  of  one's  mind,  which,  whatever  outward 
semblance  it  may  take,  contains  the  essence  of 
religious  vitality.  It  seemed  that  anyone,  Quaker, 
CathoUc,  Buddhist,  Jew  or  Agnostic,  could,  if  he 
once  realised  this,  do  reverence  in  his  own  way  to 


94  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

the  Cross  in  the  sky.  It  represented  not  Chris- 
tianity but  any  reconciliation  of  oneself  to  the  rest 
of  the  animate  and  inanimate,  the  spiritual  and  the 
material  world. 

In  another  vein,  it  held  out  high  hopes  of  Lourdes, 
the  Mecca  of  the  Catholic  sick.  Its  dominant  posi- 
tion, its  illumination — albeit  electric — ^the  thought 
which  placed  it,  make  the  Fiery  Cross  a  stroke  of 
genius.  What  if  we  should  find  all  Lourdes  like 
that  ?— if  it  should  be  really  the  City  of  Faith  ? 

For  nearly  a  week  we  tried  to  discover  this 
Lourdes  of  piety  and  miracles. 

We  watched  one  English  crippled  girl,  wheeled 
to  and  fro  in  a  bath-chair,  who,  before  we  left, 
could  walk,  clumsily  and  painfully  no  doubt,  but 
still,  walk.  We  saw  hundreds  of  others  in  as  des- 
perate a  pUght  go  sorrowfully  away,  unhealed  for 
all  their  earnest  cries  of  "  Seigneur  Jesus,  ayez 
pitie  de  nousy  In  front  of  the  Basilique,  we  saw 
faith  enough  to  make  even  it  beautiful  and  flippancy 
enough  to  damn  it  for  ever.  We  saw  men  and 
women  kneeUng  devoutly  in  the  mud  of  the  streets 
— and  others  mounting  the  Sacred  Steps  on  their 
knees  as  if  taking  part  in  a  race.  And  we  saw 
pilgrims,  often  from  afar,  behaving  themselves  after 
the  manner  of  trippers. 

"  After  all,"  said  Helen,  "  it's  just  the  person 
who  counts." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Can  you  imagine  miracles  happening  to  those 
people  ?  "  she  retorted,  pointing  to  a  jovial  crowd 
of  young  men  outside  a  cafe. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  I  answered.  "  Would  a  miracle 
be  more  likely  to  happen  if  they  all  looked  melan- 
choly ?  Perhaps,  indeed,  a  miracle  has  happened, 
and  that  is  why  they  behave  as  they  do." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  of  it." 

"  It  isn't  a  miracle  you're  looking  for,"  I  replied, 


THE  FIERY  CROSS  95 

"  it's  a  peep-show.  You  want  something  that'll 
make  you  open  your  eyes  and  say  '  Oo  ! '  But  I 
don't  suppose  you  realise  half  the  number  of  real 
miracles  that  take  place  every  day." 

"Not  here!"  Helen  was  decided.  "The 
atmosphere's  wrong." 

It  was  difficult  to  reply  to  that.  When  a  relig- 
ious resort  like  Lourdes  resembles  the  cheaper 
tjrpe  of  EngHsh  seaside  town  in  its  rows  of  shanties 
containing  tawdry  wares  ;  when  the  various  real  and 
alleged  relations  and  connections  of  Bernadette, — 
the  girl  to  whom  the  Virgin  of  Lourdes  first 
appeared — advertise  themselves  at  length  and 
expense  in  the  hope  of  gaining  thereby  a  better 
livelihood;  when  even  hotels  are  named  in  such  a 
fashion  as  to  shock  a  quite  ordinary  person  ;  when 
in  short  commercialism  presumes  upon  devout- 
ness, — miracles  are  indeed  miracles.  Lourdes 
seems  bent  on  making  money  out  of  the  troubles 
of  its  pilgrims  ;  too  often  it  is  simply  a  religious 
shopping  centre,  such  as  could  not  possibly  exist  in 
any  Protestant  country.  Though  it  is  equally 
true  that  the  incidentals  of  an  English  cathedral 
town  are  strange  commentaries,  sometimes,  on  our 
own  national  faith. 

"  I  find  it  almost  impossible  to  pray  here,"  a 
Catholic  told  me. 

Yet  there  are  others  who  apparently  have  no 
difficulty.  A  blind  Irishwoman  was  led  every  day 
to  the  ceremony  of  Benediction,  where  the  Host  is 
elevated  and  prayers  offered  before  each  sick  person 
for  his  cure.  She  used  to  sit  on  a  shaded  seat,  her 
eyes,  sightless  though  they  were,  following  every 
movement  of  the  holy  procession.  Her  mouth, 
each  day,  nervously  twitched  the  same  prayers 
and  her  hands,  moist  with  strain,  clasped  and  un- 
clapsed,  folded  and  unfolded  the  pleats  of  her 
skirt,  never  at  rest,  trembUng  violently.     As  the 


96  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

prayers  and  the  Host  drew  step  by  step  nearer,  the 
tension  to  which  her  whole  being  was  subject  in- 
creased :  she  was  beyond  the  call  of  worldly  things, 
wrapped  in  the  ecstatic  contemplation  of  a  God 
Whom  she  conceived  as  All-Merciful  to  those  in 
pain  and  sickness.  It  was  Him  alone  that  her  blind 
eyes  saw,  to  His  Sacred  Mother  that  she  opened  her 
heart,  the  blaze  of  His  glory  that  filled  her  soul 
when  the  unseen  Host  was  raised  and  the  priests 
added  their  prayers  to  hers  for  sight  to  be  restored. 

And  every  day  the  procession  moved  on,  leaving 
her  to  be  led  back  to  the  Pilgrims'  Hostel.  What 
agony  must  she  have  suffered ! — the  agony  of 
believing  herself  too  unworthy  or  her  faith  too 
feeble  for  His  notice !  To-morrow,  perhaps,  she 
would  pray  more  earnestly ;  though  who  would  say 
that  she  had  not  to-day  put  all  her  soul  into  her 
supplications  ?  The  sweat  of  prayer  with  which 
she  was  covered  would  have  given  the  He  to  such 
a  suggestion.  But  to-morrow  the  miracle  might 
happen  .  .  .  to-morrow  .  .  .  to-morrow. 

And  she  was  led  back,  still  blind,  to  her  sad 
lodging,  the  shop-keepers  sold  their  tinsel  and 
tawdry,  the  Procession  of  Healing  made  its  daily 
round,  pilgrims  left  despondent,  pilgrims  arrived 
with  hope  in  their  hearts,  men  and  women  raced  up 
the  Sacred  Steps  to  the  glory  of  what  they  imagined 
was  God,  crutches  were  added  amid  thanksgiving 
to  those  which  surround  the  walls  in  the  miraculous 

grotto  of  Marsabeille.     All  this  happened 

to-morrow. 

Perhaps  Lourdes  is,  indeed,  the  City  of  Faith,  but 
not  of  one  Faith.  I  remembered  the  Fiery  Cross  on 
the  Pic  du  Jer,  with  its  elemental  appeal  to  every 
man  and  woman.  Helen  was  right :  it  is  the  per- 
son himself  who  counts.  But  there  may  be,  as  well, 
a  Presence  which,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  we 
call  God,  who  counts  even  more. 


x^ 


MARCtrS 


Anton  Perbsc  met  us  one  day  in  the  cattle  market 
at  Lourdes.  He  ambled  in  our  direction  and  touched 
his  peakless  Basque  cap  to  Helen. 

"  Do  you  want  to  buy  a  donkey  ? "  he  said 
abruptly. 

The  grey  stubble  on  his  chin  and  his  introspective 
eyes  made  him  look  horribly  cunning  when  he 
tried  to  smile.  Had  he  been  wise  he  would  have 
kept  rigidly  to  his  scowl,  which  (a  choice  of  evils) 
suited  him  far  better. 

He  threw  away  the  bitten  end  of  his  cigarette, 
and  refusing  the  one  I  offered  him,  rolled  another 
out  of  villainously  black  tobacco  and  stuck  it  in 
his  mouth. 

"  It's  quite  good,"  he  jerked  at  us. 

"  You  seem  to  enjoy  it,  though  it  would  be  too 
strong  for  me,"  I  remarked. 

"  The  donkey,  I  mean."  Anton  had  a  temper 
when  he  chose.     "  Do  you  want  it  ?  " 

I  could  not,  out  of  sheer  devilment,  refrain  from 
asking,  "  What's  wrong  with  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  snapped.  "  Do  you  suppose  I 
want  to  cheat  you  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  sell  it  for,  then  ?  "  I 
asked. 

He  grunted  and  turned  on  his  heel. 


98  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Not  so  fast,  man  vieux,^^  I  expostulated.  "  Don't 
forget  we  haven't  refused  it  yet." 

This  brought  him  back  at  once,  but  his  expres- 
sion was  sour. 

"  Do  you  want  it,  yes  or  no  ?"  he  asked. 

"  First  let  us  see  the  noble  beast." 

I  don't  think  either  Helen  or  I  know  much  about 
donkeys  ;  but  we  did  our  best,  during  the  inspection, 
to  look  as  though  we  did.  I  fancy  I  was  beginning 
to  impress  Anton  when  I  stooped  down  gingerly 
to  feel  its  legs ;  but  just  then  Helen  made  a  fatal 
mistake. 

"  What  do  you  feed  it  on  ?  "  she  said  innocently. 

"  Does  the  purchase  include  the  saddle  ?  "  I 
asked  quickly,  to  cover  Helen's  blunder.  But  it 
was  too  late. 

"  You  feed  it  on — anything  will  do,"  replied 
Anton,  with  what  appeared  a  faint  gleam  of  amuse- 
ment. "  We  might  strike  a  bargain  over  the 
saddle." 

"  What's  its  name  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

"  What  you  like." 

"  It's  a  dear  old  thing,  isn't  it  ?  "  At  the  moment 
I  could  cheerfully  have  kicked  my  wife.  I  had  no 
desire  to  be  saddled  with  a  donkey. 

''  Let's  have  it,  do."  There  was  no  drawing 
back  then.  For  the  tone  of  supplication  had  gone 
deeper  than  language,  and  Anton  perceived  that, 
with  Helen,  it  was  as  good  as  sold. 

And  why,  after  all,  thought  I,  should  we  not 
emulate  Stevenson  in  the  Cevennes  ? 

So  we  adjourned  to  a  neighbouring  cafe,  and  after 
an  hour's  haggUng  and  wrrangHng,  the  donkey,  plus 
pack  saddle,  changed  hands  for  a  fairly  reasonable 
sum. 

We  must  have  made  an  amusing  trio  as  we  left 
Lourdes  next  morning  and  struck  into  the  heart 
of    the   mountains.     I  led  with  the  donkey  on  a 


MARCUS  99 

short  halter.  Helen  and  a  stick  brought  up  the 
rear  of  the  procession.  The  donkey  brayed  vigor- 
ously as  we  passed  through  the  town  and  shied  at 
various  imaginary  objects.  We  proved  an  effective 
counter-attraction  to  a  passing  wedding.  Lourdes 
once  left  behind,  Helen  cried  a  halt. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I'm  going  to  christen  him,"  said  Helen.  The 
donkey  pricked  up  his  ears  and  chewed  wood  from 
the  fence. 

"  Listen,"  Helen  told  him.  "  Henceforth  you 
shall  be  known  as  Marcus  AureHus.  Marcus  was 
a  wise  philosopher  and  I  think  you  follow  in  his 
footsteps.  Now  don't  disappoint  me,  there's  a 
dear." 

Marcus  Aurelius  went  on  chewing. 

We  marched  ste?-dily  forward  the  whole  of  that 
day  with  the  noisy  torrent  swirling  past  us  and 
beds  of  blood-red  clover  peacefully  drifting  between 
the  golden-green  grass  which  carpeted  the  valley. 
On  either  side  the  fir-covered  mountains  rose  in- 
creasingly threatening  as  we  mounted  higher.  Dark 
clouds  hung  on  their  summits  and  more  vaporous 
masses  poured  down  their  sides.  The  air  grew 
chilly. 

"  This  is  the  proper  way  to  see  mountains,"  I 
suggested. 

"  Um,"  replied  Helen  dubiously.     "  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  mountains  are  hard,  cruel,  isolating 
things.  There's  no  kindness,  no  friendhness  in 
them,"  I  answered.  "  Why  should  they  be  seen 
in  gracious  weather  ?  Sunshine  and  blue  skies 
don't  fit  them  :  they  ought  to  be  in  a  perpetual 
thunderstorm." 

"  But  modern  science "  began  Helen. 

" ^has  taught  us  to  avoid  them,  not  overcome 

them,"  I  continued.  "  Etienne  was  right  when  he 
said  that  the  only  way  to  know  what  a  mountain 


100  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

means  is  to  climb  up  it  in  the  worst  of  weathers. 
You'll  know  all  about  it  then." 

"  Well,  then,  you  ought  to  be  enjoying  yourself," 
said  Helen.  It  was  raining  by  this  time,  and  the 
road  had  become  steeper. 

Marcus  Aurelius  brayed  ironically. 

It  was  useless  to  point  out  to  such  companions 
that  mountains  weren't  intended  to  be  enjoyed. 
And  a  deluge  of  rain  made  conversation  impossible. 

There  was  difficulty  over  Marcus  when  we  sought 
shelter  for  the  night.  Between  us,  we  picketed 
him  in  a  field — ^his  docility  was,  in  my  opinion,  his 
best  point — and  retired  into  a  friendly  cottage. 
In  half  an  hour  he  was  squeezing  himself  through 
the  open  door. 

This  time  we  picketed  him  more  firmly,  and  were 
left  undisturbed  till  the  early  hours,  when  Helen 
began  seriously  to  wonder  whether  he  was  not  ill. 

"  I've  never  heard  a  donkey  bray  like  that," 
she  exclaimed,  anxiety  in  her  tone. 

"  You'll  get  used  to  it  in  time,"  I  answered. 
But  we  were  both  beyond  sleep. 

"We'll  make  a  long  day  of  it,"  I  said.  *' All 
France  rises  early  :  we'U  do  the  same." 

So  we  took  to  the  road  well  before  the  sun  had 
topped  the  hills. 

Marcus  Aurelius,  however,  after  the  light  work 
of  the  previous  day,  felt  skittish.  At  first  he 
refused  to  budge  from  his  meadow,  and  being  at 
last  resigned  to  further  journeying,  insisted  upon 
walking  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road,  where  he 
proved  himseK  an  intolerable  nuisance  to  patssing 
carts  and  cycles.  At  one  time  he  took  an  intense 
disUke  to  a  buUock  waggon ;  later,  to  his  own 
shadow ;  again,  to  a  bridge  we  had  to  cross.  But 
throughout  these  proceedings  he  preserved  such 
an  air  of  injured  innocence,  of  readiness  to  com- 
promise, even  of  anxiety   to  do  his  best  for  all 


MARCUS/,;    :;v    ::;   :    AOl 

parties,  that  Helen's  stick  lay  unused  in  her  hancL 
She  left  it  entirely  to  me  to  look  after  him  and  just 
loved  him  more  than  ever.  I  worked  out  a  theory 
during  the  day  of  the  psychological  connection 
between  Marcus  and 

"  Do  look  where  you're  going,"  exclaimed  Helen. 
I  narrowly  missed  a  passing  cart. 

It  began  to  rain  heavily  once  more  in  the  after- 
noon and  increased  to  a  deluge.  No  village  was  in 
sight,  and  to  go  further  was  useless.  We  took 
shelter  in  a  barn. 

"  Rotten !  "  said  Helen  gazing  with  melancholy 
eyes  at  the  grey  landscape. 

"  We'd  better  stop  here  for  the  night,*'  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  What  about  Marcus  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  WeU  ?  " 

"  Have  him  with  us  ?  " 

I  nodded.  Marcus,  intelHgent  beast  that  he  was, 
snorted. 

There  were  some  remnants  of  old  hay  in  the 
bam,  and  these  we  gathered  together  into  the  least 
draughty  corner.     Marcus  we  fastened  to  a  post. 

Some  time  during  the  night,  Helen  shook  me 
vigorously. 

*'  Wake  up,  can't  you  !  I  beUeve  you'd  sleep 
through  the  Flood,"  she  rapped  out. 

I  was  awake  in  an  instant.  I  am  not  used  to 
being  rated  in  this  way  by  the  best  wife  in  the 
world. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

There  was  no  need  for  Helen  to  continue.  If  I 
was  awake  before,  I  was  aroused  now.  ... 

Outside  in  the  night  the  rain  was  still  falling 
steadily,  aided  and  abetted  by  a  raw  wind.  In  the 
pitch-blackness  of  the  bam  I  heard  a  trickle  and 
then  a  "  plop "  ;  a  silence,  another  trickle  and  a 
louder  "  plop  !  "     Suddenly  a  bath  of  cold  water. 


102  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

released  from  the  roof  we  could  not  see  how, 
descended  full  upon  me.   I  sprang  to  my  feet,  gasping. 

"  That's  the  second,"  said  Helen  stoically. 
"  We'd  better  move  from  here." 

We  groped  our  way  into  another  corner. 

Plop  .  .  .  plop  .  .  .  plop  .  .  .  souse  ! 

Our  third  bed  was  more  difficult  to  choose. 
There  seemed  not  a  dry  spot  in  the  barn.  We 
were  wet,  hungry  and  miserable.  Marcus  Aurelius, 
too,  shuffled  uneasily  :  he  had,  at  least,  enjoyed  an 
evening  meal.     He  was  a  greedy  brute. 

We  decided  upon  our  mackintoshes,  but  had,  in 
our  pilgrimage,  left  our  packs  in  some  distant  corner 
of  the  barn — they  might  as  well  have  been  the 
other  side  of  France.  Search  as  we  would,  they 
eluded  us  ;  only  the  "  plops  "  followed  unerringly 
on  our  heels  (and  other  parts.)  We  grew  wetter, 
colder,  more  and  more  dispirited.  I  hadn't  even 
a  cigarette  :  Helen,  too,  was  without  solace.  In- 
stinctively we  huddled  close  to  Marcus  for  warmth 
— and  he  seemed  grateful. 

As  we  sat  in  misery  and  hunger,  the  first  grey 
light  of  a  drenched  dawn  broke,  to  increase  our 
sense  of  utter  desolation. 

We  spent  the  remainder  of  our  rest  at  the  bam 
door,  braying  in  unison. 

II 

I  don't  know  what  freak  of  fancy  made  us  pass 
Luz  and,  cutting  away  from  the  main  valley,  turn 
to  the  left  towards  Bareges.  In  its  lower  part 
this  side  valley  is  pretty  enough,  stiffly  uphill  by 
a  winding  road,  and  well  covered  with  poplar  and 
other  bright-coloured  trees.  Nearer  Bareges  it 
becomes  desolate.  Enormous  sweeps  of  shattered 
rock  descend  from  the  mountainside.  In  one  place 
the  road  was  blocked  to  traffic  by  a  huge  boulder 
and  in   another   by   old  snow   which   had   frozen. 


MARCUS  103 

Bareges  itself  has  twice  within  recent  years  suffered 
badly  from  avalanches,  and  now  lies  largely  in 
ruins. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  rebuilding  ? "  ask  the 
inhabitants.  "  We  rebuilt  once,  and  a  second 
avalanche  swept  away  our  work.  If  we  set  to 
again — ^who  knows  ? "  So  they  sit  looking  at 
it  during  the  long  summer  and  autumn  evenings, 
and  in  the  winter  and  spring  do  their  best  to  put  the 
memory  of  it  out  of  their  minds  altogether. 

We  were  just  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  when  our 
attention  was  attracted  by  an  approaching  figure. 
A  boy  it  was,  apparently  fourteen  or  fifteen  years 
of  age,  intended  by  nature  for  a  giant  but  lank 
and  weedy  and  shambling  in  his  gait.  He  seemed 
to  cling  to  the  inner  curve  of  the  road  as  he  walked. 

"  Be  careful,"  I  said  softly  to  Helen  as  he 
approached.     "  I  believe  he's  blind." 

Helen  led  Marcus  to  the  middle  of  the  road,  but 
the  boy,  sensing  our  approach,  stopped  alertly 
until  we  had  passed.  Although  they  appeared 
almost  normal,  his  eyes  were  sightless. 

We  saw  him  next  day,  still  edging  near  the  inner 
curve  of  the  road. 

"  Young  Bourtouloume  ?  "  said  our  host.  "  Yes, 
he's  blind,  right  enough — blind  from  birth.  He 
was  born  a  short  time  after  the  first  avalanche, 
I  think  ...  let  me  see,  in  .  .  .  1907.  It  swept 
away  his  parents'  house  and  killed  his  father,  a 
worthy  man  if  ever  there  was  one  ...  a  big  loss 
for  the  town  also.  .  .  .  His  mother  died  when  he 
was  a  few  months  old,  poor  little  chap  :  she  never 
recovered  from  the  double  shock.  .  .  . 

"  His  aunt  took  him  to  live  with  her  after  that. 
He  did  what  he  could  at  school,  but  that  wasn't 
much.  You  see,  we  have  nothing  special  for  such 
cases  in  an  out-of-the-way  spot  like  this,  and  the 
master   at   that   time   was   not    a   good    man — he 


104  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

became  very  much  disliked  in  the  village  on 
young  Bourtouloume's  account.  We  did  our  best 
for  the  lad,  of  course,  but  he  was  always  shy  of  our 
kindness,  and  proud.  .  .  .  He  is  consumptive,  I 
ifhink. 

"  Then,  in  1915,  after  the  war  started,  his  aunt's 
house  was  destroyed  by  another  avalanche  .  .  . 
it  had  been  left  by  the  first.  His  aunt  went,  too. 
.  .  .  The  boy  was  at  Lourdes,  awaiting  cure,  and 
returned  to  &id  himseK  so  much  alone  !  " 

"  What  on  earth  does  the  poor  chap  do  now  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Oh,  he's  not  poor,''  replied  our  host,  misimder- 
standing  me.  "  He  has  always  enough  to  Uve  on, 
and  to  spare.  He  is  only  about  fifteen,  but  a  man 
already." 

"  He  has  had  enough  trouble  to  make  him  one," 
commented  Helen. 

*'  And  to  give  him  more  than  one  grey  hair." 

We  saw  Bourtouloume  daily,  but  he  would  never 
enter  into  conversation  with  us.  He  used  to  sit 
in  a  meadow  lifting  his  head  pathetically  towards 
the  sun  and  the  mountains.  Sometimes  he  laughed 
to  himself  an  almost  merry  laugh;  at  others  he 
would  appear  fretful  and  restless.  But,  on  the 
whole,  in  a  way  which  appeared  almost  miraculous, 
happiness  predominated :  having  lost  so  much, 
he  seemed  doubly  to  dread  missing  one  jot  of  exis- 
tence. He  tried,  poor  fellow,  to  live  up  to  the  hilt — 
strained  every  nerve  to  catch  the  joy  of  Ufe  as  it 
floated  unseen  past  him. 

One  day  our  host  ran  to  us  with  distressed  face. 

''  Have  you  heard  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  ?  " 

"Young  Bourtouloume  .  .  .  dead  .  .  .  fell  over 
the  cliff  into  the  stream.  He  could  easily  have 
got  ut  if  he  had  had  his  sight,  but  he  must  have 
floundered  away  from  the  bank  .  .  .  the  current 


MARCUS  105 

struck  his  head  against  a  rock.  Drowned  in  half 
a  metre  depth  of  water  .  .  .  !  '* 

The  hideous  funeral,  with  its  accumulations  of 
black,  seemed  an  insult  to  him  whose  life  had  been 
spent  in  unrelieved  darkness.  The  golden  yellow 
of  the  sunlight  he  had  missed  should  have  been 
strewn  around  him,  but  if  anyone  had  the  wit  to 
think  of  it,  custom  was  too  iron  a  band  to  be  broken 
by  one  man's  thought.  So  he  was  buried  with 
black  pomp  on  a  day  of  gold  and  green,  with  a 
dreamy  wind  rustling  the  trees,  such  as  he  used 
to  put  his  head  up  to  and  sniff  like  a  terrier.  All 
the  village  attended,  the  endless  service  at  last 
sung  itseK  out,  the  body  was  lowered.  .  .  . 

"  Let's  go  from  this  place  of  death,"  pleaded 
Helen. 

We  prepared  Marcus  and  set  off  down  the  valley 
towards  cheerful  Luz. 

in 

The  thermal  station  of  Lusi — St.  Sauveur,  stradd- 
ling across  the  valley  which  leads  to  the  famous 
Cirque  de  Gavarnie,  is  a  go-ahead  little  place,  with 
enterprising  ideas  for  further  development.  It  has 
its  eye  on  more  advanced  resorts  and  hopes  before 
long  to  leave  them  far  behind  both  in  amenities 
and  trade.  The  valley  is  rich  in  minerals ;  the  torrent 
from  the  Cirque,  foaming  in  its  narrow  gorge,  is 
an  inexhaustible  source  of  power ;  but  the  electric 
installation  of  the  town  was,  in  its  then  condition, 
unworthy  support  of  the  legendary  derivation  of  the 
name  of  Luz,  the  Place  of  Light. 

When  we  arrived  on  the  scene,  a  comprehensive 
scheme  was  on  foot  to  make  in  Luz  such  a  blaze 
as  would  shine  from  one  end  of  the  Pyrenees 
to  the  other  and  in  the  valley  to  produce  such  a 
voltage  of  power  as  would  move  them  bodily  across 
France.     Everybody  was  talking  about  it,  from  the 


106  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

shepherds  in  their  little  slate-built  granges  on 
the  mountain- side  to  the  easy-going  proprietor  of 
the  hotel  in  which,  for  lack  of  homelier  accommoda- 
tion, we  put  up  for  a  few  days  with  Marcus. 

"  Luz  is  really  coming  to  its  own,"  said  everybody. 

"  We  shall  all  be  waiters,"  added  the  shepherds. 

"  Our  hotels  will  be  bigger  than  ever,"  the  pro- 
prietors. 

"  We  shall  be  rich,"  the  shopkeepers. 

"  We  shall  be  a  power  in  the  Pyrenees,"  the  Town 
Councillors. 

The  man  in  whose  hand  lay  the  open  sesame  to 
all  this  fabulous  wealth — a  short  fussy  man,  with 
square  white  beard  and  wrinkled  face — was  also 
stopping  in  our  hotel.  We  were  first  brought  into 
personal  contact  with  him  when  he  complained  of 
Marcus'  early  morning  behaviour. 

"  Such  a  beast  is  impossible,"  he  declared,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  and  spreading  out  his  hands. 
"  I,  who  suffer  already  from  insomnia  ..." 

"  He  is  not  used  to  motors,"  I  explained.  "  And 
the  garage  next  door  is  very  noisy  in  the  early 
morning.     It  disturbs  him." 

"  He  ought  to  be  electrocuted  !  " 

"  M'sieu  could  perhaps  arrange  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure.  Just  run  a  wire  .  .  .  pouff  ! 
...  it  is  all  over." 

I  dislike  a  man  without  a  sense  of  irony,  and  the 
cool,  matter-of-fact,  literal  way  in  which  he  des- 
cended into  details  of  the  operation  maddened  me. 
However,  I  started  on  a  different  tack. 

"  M'sieu  is  perhaps  connected  with  the  elec- 
tricity scheme  ?  " 

He  puffed  out  his  chest  and  bulged  his  eyes.  If 
it  had  been  possible  for  him  to  pat  his  own  back, 
he  would  have  done  so. 

"  I  am  the  electricity  scheme.  ...  It  is  entirely 
in  my  hands." 


MARCUS  107 

He  took  from  his  pocket  an  immense  card,  heavily 
engraved,  and  handed  it  to  me.     On  it  I  read 


Napoleon  Bax, 

Bordeaux. 
Ingdnieur  Electricien.'" 


With  the  exchange  of  cards,  Marcus  mercifully- 
dropped  from  the  conversation,  and  the  Luz  Elec- 
tricity Scheme  took  his  place. 

Whatever  may  have  been  his  shortcomings,  M. 
Bax  was  an  enthusiast.  He  showered  on  me 
every  detail  of  the  scheme,  maps,  plans,  sections, 
specifications,  every  paper  in  any  way  relating  to 
it.  He  trotted  me  on  to  an  open  space  in  front  of 
the  hotel,  and  waving  his  arms  over  all  the  adjacent 
hill-sides,  pointed  out  where  this  was  to  be  placed, 
where  that  was  going,  where  such  and  such  wires 
were  to  be  run  to  such  and  such  stations  to  be 
installed. 

The  next  day  he  insisted  on  taking  me  over  the 
ground. 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  scheme  !  "  he  cried  at  least 
a  dozen  times.  "  It  will  make  Luz  the  finest 
resort  in  the  Pyrenees  if  only  the  Town  Council 
will  live  up  to  it.  Minerals  too — any  quantity  of 
them — will  run  down  the  valley  from  the  mines 
above.  ...     A  wonderful  scheme  1| 

"  There  was  one  map  I  omitted  to  show  you 
yesterday  ...  I  will  do  so  this  evening."  And 
we  careered  down  the  hill- sides  like  a  couple  of 
mad  things,  M.  Bax's  coat-tails  catching  unheeded 
in  bushes,  his  stick  waved  in  front  of  him,  a  gleam 
of  triumph,  which  even  his  moist  handkerchief 
could  not  remove,  lighting  up  his  face. 


108  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  I  must  work  now,"  he  exclaimed  as  soon  as 
we  reached  the  hotel.  "  In  two  hours  I  will  show 
you  the  map." 

While  waiting,  I  exercised  Marcus  by  riding  him 
some  distance  into  the  hills — I  had  done  enough 
uphill  walking  for  that  day — and  then  leaving 
him  free  to  make  the  best  of  his  way  down.  Dur- 
ing the  descent  we  lost  each  other  and  it  was  not 
until  I  heard  a  melancholy  bray  coming  from  a 
stream  at  some  distance,  and  entirely  in  the  wrong 
direction,  that  I  was  able  to  put  on  his  rope  and 
lead  him  into  the  village.  The  result  was  that  I 
was  late  for  the  interview  with  M.  Bax,  whom  I 
found  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel  with  maps  and 
papers  spread  around  him. 

"  Ah,"  he  said  when  he  saw  me,  "  this  is  the  map 
I  wanted  you  to  see — ^leave  the  donkey  where  he 
is — it  shows  more  clearly  than  any  other  the  full 
extent  of  the  scheme.  You  can  see  here  the  chain 
of  stations  We  are  proposing  to  build  down  the 
valley  with  cables  to  each  mine,  to  Gavarnie,  to 
Gfedre,  to  Luz,  to  St.  Sauveur.  These  blue  mark- 
ings are  the  entrances  to  the  mines.  The  black  Hues 
are  light  railways — a  difficult  and  expensive  job  in 
such  a  narrow  valley.  You  saw  this  morning  some 
of  the  places  where  work  is  just  beginning  :  now 
come  outside  and  I  will  explain  to  you  more  clearly 
with  the  help  of  the  map." 

He  seized  the  map  in  one  hand,  myself  in  the 
other,  and  trotted  us  both  out  on  to  a  point  of 
vantage.  Here  he  repeated  his  antics  of  the  pre- 
vious evening  in  pointing  out  the  various  portions 
of  the  work,  but  this  time  much  more  rapidly, 
more  fully — if  possible,  more  enthusiastically. 

Thoroughly  exhausted,  but  with  a  sense  of 
having  achieved  something  which  mattered,  he 
returned  to  his  table  in  the  hotel  garden. 

It  was  bare. 


MARCUS  109 

M.  Bax  seized  his  head  with  both  hands  and 
ran  to  view  the  utter  void.  He  fell  on  his  knees 
to  inspect  the  surrounding  ground,  pushed  his 
face  into  the  air  to  search  for  wind,  exclaimed, 
repeated,  implored  Heaven,  and  finally  broke  down 
altogether. 

**  Gone  !  "  he  cried  tragically.  "  Gone  !  Every- 
thing gone.  Maps,  plans,  specification,  contracts 
even  !  Stolen,  perhaps  !  Who  knows !  Ah  sacral 
What  to  do,  what  to  do  !  !  " 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

*'  I  will  contain  myself,"  he  cried  while  the  tears 
still  trickled  down  his  cheeks  ;  "  but  gone  !  All 
my  work  for  nothing  !  What  will  become  of  the 
scheme,  I  ask  you  ?  " 

"  But  have  you  not  duplicate  copies  ? "  I 
enquired. 

"  Not  here,  not  here,"  he  wailed.  "  At  Bor- 
deaux, yes  ;  but  not  here." 

He  called  out  the  entire  staff  of  the  hotel,  and 
between  them  every  square  inch  of  the  garden  was 
searched. 

At  the  same  time  I  made  two  important  dis- 
coveries. 

Marcus  was  missing. 

A  chewed  corner  of  paper,  which  I  slipped  into 
my  pocket. 

One  by  one  the  staff  returned  to  report  their 
failure  ;  tragedy  was  written  on  their  faces — tragedy 
for  their  own  advancement,  as  well  as  for  that  of  Luz. 

"Call  in  the  police,"  cried  M.  Bax.  "I  will 
offer  a  reward." 

"  Why  not  fetch  the  fresh  plans  from  Bor- 
deaux ?  "  I  asked  gently,  wondering  at  the  same 
time  what  I  ought  to  do. 

"  It  would  be  more  expensive,"  repUed  M.  Bax. 
His  emotion,  evidently,  had  not  conquered  his 
sense  of  economy. 


110  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  It  doesn't  look  as  if  you'll  get  them  back,"  I 
said. 

"  One  can  but  try,"  he  answered  with  philosophic 
resignation. 

At  this  moment  Marcus  innocently  wandered  on 
to  the  tragic  stage.  M.  Bax  for  a  moment  eyed 
him  suspiciously.     Then  his  face  fell. 

"  It  is  not  possible,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

Close  upon  Marcus  came  the  blue  and  silver 
policeman  to  whom  M.  Bax  announced  a  fifty-franc 
reward  to  whomsoever  should  find  the  missing 
papers.  While  the  fateful  sentences  were  being 
uttered,  all  of  us  stood  tensely  by  as  if  we  expected 
the  policeman  suddenly  to  produce  the  thief  from 
his  pocket.     Even  Marcus  appeared  to  take  interest. 

Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  his  discourse,  M. 
Bax  stopped  and  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  striking  an  attitude.  "  I  offer 
no  reward.  I  will  go  to  Bordeaux  and  return  with 
a  strong  box  !     My  bags,  my  bags." 

The  entire  staff  rushed  into  the  hotel  to  prepare 
his  things  for  the  journey — for  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  M.  Bax  was  a  power  in  the  land  of 
Luz — while  he  strode  impatiently  to  and  fro. 

"  A  car,"  he  ordered  imperially ;  and  the  awe- 
struck boots,  who  up  to  this  had  been  too  dazed  to 
move,  rushed  to  obey.  In  less  than  ten  minutes 
M.  Bax's  belongings  were  placed  in  the  motor  and 
he  himself  was  standing  on  the  step. 

"  You  will  keep  my  room  for  me,"  he  demanded 
of  the  proprietor.     That  worthy  bowed  low. 

"  If  the  plans  should  be  found,  you  will  hand 
them  over  to  the  poHce  to  take  care  of." 

Another  bow. 

"  En  route,  alors.'^ 

A  cough  from  the  engine,  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  M. 
Bax  had  started  on  his  journey. 

Marcus,  that  night,  was  distinctly  off  his  feed. 


MARCUS  111 

"  I  shall  have  to  tell  your  mistress  what  I  think 
of  you,  you  brute,"  I  exclaimed. 

If  ever  a  donkey  had  a  sense  of  humour,  Marcus 
had.     I  will  swear  he  laughed  in  my  face  ! 

IV 

Before  there  was  time  for  the  estimable  M.  Bax 
to  return,  we  retreated  from  Luz.  Our  flight  was 
made  all  the  more  hasty  by  the  fact  that  Marcus 
ate  a  shawl  from  a  shop  stand — a  meal  which  cost 
us  a  cool  fifty  francs. 

"I'm  disappointed  in  him,"  said  Helen. 

"  Can't  say  I  am,"  I  replied.  "  I  never  expected 
much  from  such  a  lop-eared  beast." 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  called  him  Marcus  Aurelius," 
sighed  Helen. 

"  Don't  worry,"  I  said,  "  it's  only  part  of  the 
general  foolishness  of  naming  children  before  you 
know  them.  You  call  a  girl  Daisy  and  she  grows 
like  asparagus;  or  a  boy  Horatio  Nelson  and  he 
becomes  a  mild  bank  clerk.  Children  ought  not 
to  be  named  until  they're  sixteen  years  old  at 
least." 

"  Couldn't  we  alter  his  name  ?  " 

"  I'd  much  prefer  to  alter  his  ownership."  Thus  I 
began  to  push  home  the  wedge.  "  He'U  be  landing 
us  both  in  the  local  police  court  if  we  aren't  careful. 
And  neither  of  us  has  got  the  money  to  pay  a  fine  : 
Marcus  has  arranged  that,  confound  him  !  " 

The  fifty-franc  meal  had  indeed  brought  our 
resources  almost  to  vanishing  point,  and  not  with- 
standing the  paper  we  used  in  calculations  and  plans, 
we  could  not  increase  them.  It  became  plainer 
than  ever  that  Marcus  would  have  to  go. 

"  It's  no  use  selling  him  here,"  I  told  Helen. 
"  He's  notorious  already." 

But  we  found  an  unsuspecting  fellow  in 
Pierrefitte,  at  the  end  of  the  valley,  who  wanted  a 


112  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

donkey  and  who  was  apparently  deceived  by  our 
efiEorts  to  spruce  up  the  miscreant  Marcus.  He 
inspected  him  closely. 

"  What  do  you  want  for  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

1  named  a  price ;  and  after  forty-five  minutes' 
rapid  and  concentrated  argument,  was  glad  to 
pocket  two-thirds  of  it.  Marcus — the  action  was 
typical  of  him — brayed  with  unmistakable  sarcasm 
as  the  money  was  handed  over. 

We  shouldered  our  packs  and  struck  out  for 
Lourdes. 

"  Poor  old  Marcus  !  "  exclaimed  Helen,  after  some 
time. 

"  Don't  like  carrying  a  pack,  eh  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Beast ! "  was  her  only  answer.  She  hates 
having  her  sentimental  bubbles  pricked  as  much  as 
I  sometimes  enjoy  pricking  them. 

The  two  days'  leisurely  tramp  to  Lourdes,  how- 
ever, was  chiefly  occupied  in  financial  conversation. 
The  money  which  the  dear  departed  had  put  into 
our  pockets  would  not  carry  us  far. 

"  We'd  better  open  shop,"  suggested  Helen. 

"  Why  not  deal  in  donkeys,"  I  answered  rue- 
fully. 

*'  I've  an  idea,"  resumed  Helen  suddenly,  **  we 
might  open  an  English  bureau  in  Lourdes." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  Anything.  There  are  lots  of  English  pilgrims 
and  tourists.  You  could  get  enough  material  to- 
gether in  a  day  to  make  yourself  useful  to  them." 

"  But  that's  done  already,"  I  objected. 

"  Then  get  your  say  in  before  the  others,"  re- 
plied Helen  shortly. 

"  Besides,  my  precious  pilgrims  might  ask  for 
too  much  information." 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Helen  innocently.  She  is 
an  adept  at  avoiding  compliments. 

When  we  arrived  at  Lourdes  I  spent  an  exhaust- 


MARCUS  iia 

ing  day  at  the  Basilique,  the  hotels,  the  station,  the 
castle,  and  finished  up  in  what  seemed  to  me  a 
*'  newsy  "  looking  cafe. 

Sure  enough,  I  heard  vaguely  of  the  arrival, 
the  next  afternoon,  of  a  pilgrimage  from  England. 
I  waited  outside  the  station. 

*'  Excuse  my  pestering  you  so  soon,"  I  began, 
"  but  I  represent  the  EngUsh  Pilgrims'  Informa- 
tion Bureau  and  I  should  be  pleased  to  help  you 
in  any  way  I  can." 

The  first  of  the  party  stared  at  me  without  speak- 
ing ;  and  then,  turning  on  his  heel,  walked  away. 
I  repeated  the  formula  to  a  second. 

''  Any  English  beer  to  be  had  about  this  place  ?  " 
he  asked. 

It  was  not  at  aU  the  opening  I  had  expected,  but 
I  seized  it. 

"  Come  with  me,"  I  said. 

I  left  him  an  hour  later,  contented  in  my  mind 
that  the  scheme  was  a  good  one. 

"  Show  me  round  to-morrow  morning  ? "  he 
asked.     "  I'll  bring  some  friends  with  me." 

I  did  well  that  day  and  made  further  appoint- 
ments for  the  next.  The  English  Pilgrims'  In- 
formation Bureau  was  booming. 

For  a  fortnight  it  continued  to  boom.  Every 
day  it  dropped  into  further  luck.  In  addition, 
one  or  two  trifling  commercial  speculations  on 
which  I  ventured  promised  to  turn  up  trumps. 
Helen,  like  the  good  needlewoman  she  is,  was  busy 
to  some  effect.  Money  began  to  rattle  again  in  our 
pockets. 

Then  came  the  slump.  No  English  pilgrims 
arrived.  I  had  one  day  with  an  American  and 
three  with  nobody.  Helen  alone  brought  grist  to 
the  mill. 

"  By  the  time  we've  paid  our  rent,"  I  said,  "  we 
shan't  have  a  fat  lot  left." 


114  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"We  shall  think  of  something  by  then,"  she 
answered  cheerily.  "  Why  don't  you  take  to  trans- 
lation ?     There  must  be  lots  of  it  to  be  done." 

So,  acting  as  my  own  traveller  and  keeping  at 
the  same  time  a  keen  look  out  for  further  pilgrims, 
I  made  once  more  the  round  of  Lourdes  and  brought 
back  three  days'  work  with  me.  Then  just  as  it 
seemed  that  nobody  in  England  or  any  English- 
speaking  country  was  writing  to  anybody  in 
Lourdes,  the  note  arrived  from  Paris. 

Henry  Bristol,  its  writer,  having  heard  of  me 
from  one  of  the  returning  EngHsh  pilgrims,  in- 
quired whether  I  should  be  at  liberty  to  show  him 
and  his  family  around  Lourdes  and  the  surrounding 
district  from  such  and  such  a  date  onward.  He 
wanted  the  thing  done  properly,  did  Mr.  Bristol, 
and  regardless  of  expense. 

I  wired  him  that  I  should  be  free  on  the  day  he 
mentioned  and  then  waited  on  half  rations. 

At  the  time  stated  he  arrived — a  tall  sUm  man 
with  colourless  wife  and  three  bouncing  daughters. 
I  had  thought  myseK  by  this  time  fairly  well  versed 
in  local  matters,  but  he  taxed  my  historical  powers 
sadly ;  and  whenever  my  answers  did  not  come 
up  to  his  expectations  would  look  at  me  with  an 
unnerving  mixture  of  shrewdness  and  sadness  and 
consult  a  guide-book.  Unfortunately,  he  would 
never  let  the  guide-book  out  of  his  possession. 

But  in  spite  of  his  continual  inquisition  I  took 
to  him  exceedingly.  He  was  a  generous  employer 
and  an  acute-minded  man  with  a  vein  of  sly 
humour  it  was  prudent  in  general  to  avoid,  since  it 
could,  if  necessary,  cut  like  a  lash.  But  I  did  not 
hear  him  once  bitter  or  cynical  at  other  people's 
expense  as  smaller-minded  humourists  often  be- 
come. 

I  took  his  party  round  every  corner  of  Lourdes, 
and   judiciously   avoiding   Luz,   to  Gavarnie  and 


MARCUS  115 

Cauterets.     He  asked  me  to  go  with  them  to  Pau 
and  I  accepted. 

On  the  night  before  his  departure  for  England  I 
was  chatting  with  him  on  the  hotel  balcony. 

"I'd  like  to  show  this  view  to  some  of  my  friends," 
he  said  musingly. 

"It's  magnificent,"  I  answered. 

"  Know  Liverpool  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly,  apropos 
of  nothing. 

"  Tolerably  well." 

"  Indeed  ?     Know  Dr.  Birch  ?  " 

Now  it  happened  that  Birch  and  I  had  been  on 
very  good  terms.  I  was  able  therefore  to  tell 
Bristol  a  few  new  things  about  his  medical 
friend. 

He  listened  quizzically  for  some  time  and  then 
shot  a  question. 

"  What  about  the  Enghsh  Pilgrims'  Informa- 
tion Bureau  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you."  The  ground 
was  becoming  rather  dangerous. 

"  All  gammon,  isn't  it  ?  " 

If  you  think  that "  I  began. 

Don't  flare  up.     I  mean  what  I  said.     What 
are  your  qualifications  for  the  job  ?  " 

"  As  good  as  other  people's." 

"  Just  so.     Nil,  in  other  words." 

"  Very  well,  then  " — ^I  turned  on  my  heel — "  I'm 
sorry  to  have  intruded  under  false  pretences." 

"  Bosh.     You're  hard  up,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  know  better.  I  once  did  something  of  the 
same  myself.  Come  and  have  a  drink — ^to 
Birch." 

Next  morning  he  handed  me  an  envelope. 

"  It  contains  some  good  advice,"  he  said,  "  written 
on  many  sheets  of  paper.  Don't  open  it  till  we've 
gone." 


cc 


116  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

I  obeyed  instructions. 

It  contained  double  the  money  I  had  asked — and 
that  was  a  fairly  stiff  amount. 

I  wired  to  Helen :  "  Join  me  at  Pau  and 
celebrate/' 


XI 

THUNDERWATER 


There  is  a  superstition  among  folk  of  the  Pyrenees 
that  thunderstorms  can  be  heard  approaching  in 
mountain  torrents. 

You  are  walking  along  a  valley  road  on  a  hot, 
still  day,  when  the  stream,  which  no  longer  merits 
the  name  of  gave,  seems  almost  too  exhausted 
to  move — and  during  the  summer  many  of  the 
mountain  brooks  degenerate  into  a  feeble  trickle. 
As  the  road  takes  a  sudden  bend,  so  as  to  bring 
you  out  of  the  sound-shadow,  the  murmur  deepens 
momentarily  into  the  semblance  of  a  distant  roar. 
Then,  say  the  Pyrenean  peasants,  you  have  heard 
the  thunderwater  :  a  storm  is  approaching. 

The  torrent  which  runs  past  Pau  is  seldom,  if 
ever,  quiet ;  always  a  lively,  often  a  tempestuous 
stream,  bearing  the  deepest  snows  from  the  moun- 
tains into  the  broad  Adour,  faUing  rapidly,  twisting 
convulsively  over  rocks,  through  narrow  gorges, 
and  by  pleasant  pastures  towards  the  ocean. 
Throughout  most  of  its  course  it  is  flecked  with 
foam  and  hurled  hither  and  thither  by  rapid  cur- 
rents and  insidious  whirlpools,  always  tattered, 
turgid,  rebelHous,  stubborn — and  sometimes 
thunderwater. 

We  sat  by  its  banks  one  evening  when  great 
indigo  clouds  obscured  the  fine  panorama  of  moun- 
tains to  the  south  and  illuminated,  by  comparison. 


118  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

the  big  white  hotels  on  the  terrace  behind  us. 
Sultriness  hung  like  a  pall  over  everything  :  even 
the  gave  was  oppressed.  A  grasshopper  started 
his  song,  but  after  a  few  chirps  abandoned  it. 
Neither  Helen  nor  I  spoke. 

Without  any  warning  the  torrent  suddenly  broke 
into  a  roar — it  was  a  weird  sound,  like  a  great 
animal  in  pain.  Then  it  sank,  as  suddenly,  to  its 
former  oppressed  murmur. 

"  Thunderwater,"  I  said  musingly. 

Helen  made  no  answer  for  some  minutes  and 
then  said  quietly : 

"  Doesn't  it  call  you  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  To  the  big  thunderwater — the  sea  ?  " 

"  Aye.  Do  you  remember  the  blues  and  greens 
of  the  Mediterranean  ? — the  sort  of  colours  you 
see  in  dreams  before  you  wake  up  to  the  dirty  fact 
of  the  Thames  ?  " 

"But  the  Mediterranean  is  sunshine  water," 
said  Helen. 

"  It's  pretty  bad  thunderwater  too,  at  times," 
I  added,  "  black  thunder." 

*'  What  about  the  Atlantic,  though  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  Atlantic  may  be  thunderwater  also,  or 
purring  water,  or  green  jealous  water,  but  never 
sunshine  water." 

"  It's  so  strong,"  suggested  Helen. 

"  It's  cruel — ^like  mountains,"  I  said,  "  always 
cruel.  Most  of  nature  is — fascinatingly  so,  with  a 
deep  constructive  motif  beneath  its  cruelty." 

"  What  motif  ?  " 

"  Haven't  a  notion.  But  it's  there :  otherwise 
something  would  have  come  along  before  this  to 
change  the  course  of  things.  The  world  can't  live 
on  cruelty  alone." 

"  No.  This  southern  France  proves  that.  Do 
you  know  of  any  place  more  kindly  ?  " 


THUNDERWATER  119 

I  shook  my  head. 

*'  Nowhere,"  I  said. 

"  And  yet,"  mused  Helen—"  the  bull-fight." 

"  That's  the  blot  on  the  'scutcheon,"  I  answered. 
''  That  and  laziness." 

Helen  raised  her  eyebrows. 

''  From  you  of  all  people  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  I  retorted,  "  I  may  be  awake  to 
other  people's  faults,  surely  !  " 

"  I  believe  you'd  like  to  live  in  the  Midi,"  she 
opined  sagely. 

I  nodded. 

"  Then  come  with  me  to  the  Atlantic  :  it's  better 
for  you." 

*'  Right,  0  Queen  of  my  Heart.  I  will  follow 
you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

"  Let's  get  back  to  civilisation." 

"  Where's  that  ?  " 

"  Biarritz,  for  instance." 

Helen  is  a  shrewd  child.  It  flashed  across  me 
that  her  talk  about  the  Atlantic  was  only  a  pre- 
amble :  what  she  really  wanted  was  a  street  of 
fashionable  shops. 

''  What  do  you  say  ?  "  she  asked. 

''  Nothing.  It  merely  struck  me  as  being  a 
long  way  round." 

"  To  Biarritz  ?  " 

"  To  Biarritz,"  I  echoed  with  meaning. 

"  But  you  agree  ?  " 

"  The  ends  of  the  earth  are  farther  than  Biarritz 
— and  just  about  as  empty  as  it  is  at  this  time  of 
the  year.  Have  I  not  promised  to  follow  you  even 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ?  " 

*'  Good  old  boy  !  "  Helen  kissed  me  in  full  sight 
of  the  town  of  Pau  :  and  at  that  moment  broke  the 
sound  of  distant  thunder. 

"  It  will  always  be  thunder  at  Biarritz,"  mused 
Helen,  with  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes. 


120  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Of  the  bargain  counter  ?  "  I  asked  tritely. 

"  Of  the  sea,"  she  replied.     *'  I  really  did  mean 
that  part  of  the  conversation.*' 

"  Let's  go,"  she  added,  "  before  the  storm  comes 
on. 

The  storm,  as  it  happened,  hung  all  night  to  the 
line  of  the  Pyrenees  :  and  as  the  early  morning 
train,  which  Helen  forced  me  into  taking,  skirted 
their  bases,  the  roar  of  the  wheels — it  seemed  a 
sort  of  triangular  roar — kept  up  its  refrain  of 
"  Biarritz,  Biarritz,  Biarritz." 

"  I  know  what  it's  saying  to  you,"  I  remarked  to 
Helen. 

"  What  ?  " 
"  '  Shops  again,  shops  again,  shops  again.'  " 

Helen  turned  up  her  nose  in  reply.  But  I  knew 
I  was  right. 

Biarritz,  in  the  dead  season,  proved  more  than 
depressing  ;  the  shops,  after  all,  were  disappointing  ; 
only  the  sea,  with  its  pillows  of  old  lace  foam  for 
the  incoming  breakers  to  fall  on,  claimed  our  hearts. 

"  We  go  North  by  the  side  of  the  thunderwater," 
commanded  Helen,  her  hair  streaming  in  the 
Atlantic  wind. 

n 

When  I  had  written  thus  far,  I  took  my  manu- 
script on  to  a  beach  where  I  could  be  quite  alone. 
I  wanted  to  think  :  and  to  do  that  one  must  have  no 
living  thing  near  by  to  offer  itself  for  speculation. 
Even  Helen,  dear  girl,  would  have  been  in  the  way 
at  the  moment.  That  is  why  I  chose  this  beach  in 
Biscay  :  it  was  the  most  solitary  spot  I  could  find. 

It  was  part  of  the  Landes — of  what  might  have 
been  a  French  Sahara,  had  not  pines  arrested  the 
encroachment  of  the  sand.  They  were  intensely 
silent  as  I  walked  down  the  fragrant  lane  towards 
the  shore,  pine  needles  forming  a  resilient  bed  for 


THUNDERWATER  121 

the  feet,  the  senses  instinctively  quickening  as  in 
expectation.  The  trees  themselves  seemed  alert 
but  so  dignified  as  to  avoid  outward  display  of 
emotion.  To  another  they  might  have  appeared 
melancholy  in  their  deeply  mottled  Ught  and  shade 
— ^there  was  a  monotonous  regularity  in  their 
forms,  and  in  the  rows  of  earthenware  cups,  shaped 
like  flowerpots,  which  caught  the  resin  from  their 
scarred  barks.  I  counted  these  cups  as  they  lined 
the  road :  fifty-six  of  them  I  could  see,  each  half- 
full,  before  the  pine-needle  path  topped  the  hill, 
changed  to  sand,  and  trickled  down  to  the  wide 
seashore. 

Just  as  the  path  reached  the  crest,  light  broke 
through  the  pines — above,  the  Hght  of  a  clear  blue 
sky  intensified  by  the  greenly  curved  mass  of  the 
trees  ;  below,  a  pale  silver  mist  through  which  it  was 
difficult  to  identify  anything.  Gradually  the  forest 
melted  away :  a  solitary  wizened  tree-stump 
braved  the  rigours  of  the  western  wind,  a  few  tufts 
of  coarse  yellow-green  grass,  scattered  hillocks  of 
sterile  sand,  the  silver  mist  rising  to  meet  us  ;  and 
behind  it,  the  long  rolling  breakers  of  the  Altantic 
on  a  calm  day. 

I  had  come  out  with  the  intention  of  slaughter- 
ing most  of  what  I  had  written :  the  rough,  wood- 
built  hut,  in  which  I  had  spent  the  night,  seemed  the 
epitome  of  a  life  too  rigorous  and  stern  to  exist 
side  by  side  with  the  fluent,  full-blooded  life  of  the 
Midi.  Had  I  made  a  mistake  in  writing  as  I  had 
done  ?  Was  it  not  a  chimera,  a  mirage,  a  foolishly 
false  hope,  to  suppose  that  men  lived  thus  when 
here,  within  a  few  miles  of  them,  life  was  so  drab, 
so  lacking  in  every  richness  they  possessed  ?  I 
had  seen  life  where  wine  ran  easily :  but  could 
men  even  thus  afford  to  be  indolent  and  happy- 
go-lucky  for  the  morrow  ? 

I  thought  of  Etienne,  of  Olga,  of  Mimi,  of  Anton 


■^- 


122  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Peresc,  each  as  a  type  which  differs  from  its  proto- 
type with  us — the  adventurer  bolder,  the  victim 
more  pathetic,  the  young  more  innocent,  the  taci- 
turn more  brusque,  the  boor  less  suave  even  than 
in  England.  Yet  what  vast  tracks  of  their  minds 
were  similar  in  all  respects  to  ours  ;  what  hopes 
and  fears  were  common  to  us  both  ;  how  many 
experiences  we  could  share  and  find  points  of 
contact. 

But,  I  considered,  what  Englishman  would  have 
shown  his  emotion  as  did  Napoleon  Bax  of  Bor- 
deaux when  Marcus  ate  his  papers  ?  Along  all 
this  southern  coast,  emotion,  mood,  was  the  chief 
event  of  life.  .  .  . 

True,  but  I  was  forgetting  my  geography.  There 
was  yet  a  hope  that  the  Midi,  which  had  so  capti- 
vated our  imagination,  was  the  true  France.  Bor- 
deaux, a  third  of  the  way  up  the  western  coast, 
had  confirmed  it. 

Yet  again  I  wondered  how  to  reconcile  Bax  with 
these  desolate  Landes.  The  Midi  was  all  exube- 
rance, toned  with  indolence  by  the  fierceness  of  the 
sun :  there  was  neither  exuberance  nor  indolence  here. 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  there  was  not  room  for  both 
lotus  eating  and  the  white  toothed  Atlantic.  .  .   . 

Slowly — very  slowly — there  rose  out  of  the  silver 
mist  a  figure  plodding  its  way  along  the  shore,  and 
faintly — ^very  faintly — a  voice  arose,  mingled  with 
the  slow  pulsation  of  the  sea.  Figure  and  voice 
appeared  blurred  by  the  two  fierce  elements  ;  and 
then,  as  if  after  a  struggle,  dominated  them — the 
figure  of  an  immensely  stout  man  of  jovial  counten- 
ance, a  French  Falstaff,  clad  in  the  dark  blue  of  a 
fisherman,  trolling  forth  a  song  which  seemed  a 
version  of  the  song  sung  by  the  pines  and  the  breakers 
on  stormy  nights,  full  of  sibilants  and  hisses  and 
long  mournful  vowels,  rising  in  crescendos  and  fall- 
ing again  into  an  angry  confused  murmur. 


THUNDERWATER  123 

As  he  approached  me,  he  ceased  to  sing.  Plac- 
ing his  arms  akimbo,  he  stared  at  my  full  length 
dusted  over  by  yellow  sand. 

"  Bonjour,  M'sieu,'"'  he  cried  heartily. 

"  It  is  a  fine  day,"  I  answered  by  way  of  opening 
conversation. 

"  A  nice  south  wind,"  he  replied  deliberately, 
"  but  it  will  change  soon  to  the  west." 

"  And  that  means ?  " 

"  Storm,  M'sieu.  Or  at  least  bad  weather  "— 
and  then,  after  a  pause  :  "I  go  out  to-night — out 
there.  But  that  doesn't  matter."  He  jerked  his 
arm  beyond  the  white  breakers. 

"  And  so  you  sing ?  "     I  suggested. 

"  To  think  of  other  things.  It  is  no  use  to 
think  about  bad  weather :  not  if  you  want  to 
enjoy  life." 

"  And  life  is  meant  to  be  enjoyed  ?  " 

"  Sacre  nom  !  "  He  clapped  his  hands — "  here 
is  a  moralist !  " 

"  By  no  means,"  I  answered.  "  Where  I  have 
been,  in  the  South,  that  is  the  orthodox  creed." 

"  I  should  think  so.  But  in  the  South  they  have 
no  Biscay  to  trouble  them.  Go  back  to  them, 
M'sieu,  and  take  them  what  you  find  around  you 
to-night." 

He  doffed  his  cap,  and  resuming  his  song,  struck 
inland  on  the  path  by  which  I  had  reached  the 
shore. 

"  I  sing  to  think  of  other  things.  ..." 

"...  they  have  no  Biscay  to  trouble  them." 

The  phrases  kept  repeating  themselves. 

Perhaps  it  was  Nature  that  was  responsible  for 
the  enthusiastic,  emotional,  excitable  tempera- 
ment of  Napoleon  Bax — to  make  him  think  of 
other  things.  They  in  the  South  had  their  charm- 
ing indolence,  their  naivete,  their  rich  humoiu", 
their   serene   confidence  that  everything  would  go 


124  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

right  somehow.     In  Nice  there   was   the   Angels' 
Bay — not  a  Biscay  to  trouble  them. 

I  returned  with  my  manuscript  untouched.     You 
must  take  these  sketches  as  you  find  them. 


m 

In  Dax,  the  little  railway  junction  from  which 
southward  bound  trains  branch  to  Spain  on  the 
one  hand  and  to  the  Pyrenean  resorts  on  the 
other — a  town  which  the  descriptive  Frenchman 
calls  *'  une  ville  coquette  " — there  was  a  couple  who 
fitted  in  with  my  mood.  They  laughed — ^to  make 
them  think  of  other  things. 

The  past  had  not  been  kind  to  Henri  and  Made- 
leine Capdepuy.  Only  two  months  after  their 
marriage  the  father  of  Henri  had  died  leaving  his 
invaUd  mother  dependent  on  him  ;  within  a  week 
Madeleine's  mother  had  died  also.  Before  that, 
her  two  brothers  had  been  killed  and  Henri  had 
left  the  army  battered  but  "  whole  '*' — as  complete- 
ness goes  in  these  days.  A  few  weeks  ago  Henri, 
troubled  by  a  persistent  and,  I  fear,  neglected  cough, 
reluctantly  visited  the  doctor.  "  Consumption," 
he  feared.     Even  that  was  not  the  worst. 

It  would  have  been  bearable  if  Henri  and  Madeleine 
had  decided  to  live  out  their  lives  alone.  But  soon 
there  would  be  three  of  them.  .  .  . 

"  Jean  will  be  a  strong  boy,"  Madeleine  told 
Helen  one  day — it  will  be  observed  that  she  had 
already  decided  upon  a  son.  "  We  shall  not  put 
him  to  work  in  his  father's  boot  shop  :  that  is  a 
bad  life  for  one  so  healthy  as  he  will  be.  We  shall 
give  him  a  good  education — ^we  shall  have  been  able 
to  save  money  by  that  time — and  then  I  hope  he 
will  go  in  for  motoring.  It  is  more  in  the  open  air. 
You  see,  I  have  thought  it  all  out." 


THUNDERWATER  125 

She  laughed  shyly,  but  already  with  a  mother's 
pride,  as  she  said  this;  and  then,  Helen  told  me, 
there  came  into  her  face  a  look  so  scared  that  her 
whole  body  trembled.  Abruptly  she  turned,  ran 
into  the  little  room  they  rented  behind  the  shop 
and  began  feverishly  sewing  at  a  tiny  garment 
while  she  hummed  a  brave  tune. 

"  Of  course  I  do  not  trouble  for  myself,"  said 
Henri  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "  The  doctor 
says  I  may  be  cured  soon.  .  .  .  But  for  Jean  it  is 
a  different  matter,  parhleu.  Suppose  he  .  .  .  well, 
what  will  he  think  of  us  then  ?  " 

**  Perhaps,"  I  began 

*'  Yes,   perhaps,   I   know.     But   just   look  what 

these  books  say "  and  he  reached  down  from  the 

shelf  three  or  four  well-thumbed  medical  manuals 
from  which  he  read  long-winded  extracts.  How  I 
hated  those  books  !  His  faith,  supporting  that  of 
his  wife,  would  have  been  worth  all  the  science  in 
the  world.  But  he  was  unwittingly  leaving  her 
to  make  her  fight  alone. 

"  Henri  reads  a  lot  of  silly  books,"  she  told  Helen 
on  another  occasion,  "  but  I  won't  let  him  read 
them  to  me.  I  won't  believe  them — I  won't ! 
They're  wicked  books.  ..." 

The  Capdepuys  shared  a  yard  with  us — then* 
window  looked  into  ours — and  it  was  thus  natural 
that  we  should  become  friendly.  It  was  natural, 
too,  that  we  should  learn  not  only  their  routine 
but  some  of  the  tremendous  trivialities  of  their 
daily  lives  which  they  intended  to  keep  to  them- 
selves :  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  it  was  un- 
avoidable. We  could  see  Henri  at  night,  when  the 
sun  had  sunk,  and  it  was  no  longer  possible,  after 
the  closing  of  the  shop,  for  him  to  hang  about  the 
yard  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  poring  over  these  medical 
books,  his  hair  ruffled  and,  once  at  least,  with 
tears  on  his  cheeks. 


\ 


126  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Then  Madeleine  entered  the  room  unnoticed. 
Quietly  approaching,  she  put  her  arms  over  his 
shoulders,  her  face  very  close  to  his. 

"  My  dear,"  she  seemed  to  say,  '*  don't  read 
that  nonsense  any  more.  What  difference  can  it 
make,  when  little  Jean  is  going  to  be  so  healthy  ?  " 

At  any  rate  he  smiled  and  tossed  the  books  into 
a  corner.  Together  they  sat  holding  hands,  speak- 
ing earnestly.  .  .  . 

At  six  o'clock  every  morning  the  long  shutters 
of  their  room  would  be  flung  open  by  Henri  in 
neglige  ;  and  soon  after,  the  shrill,  though  not  un- 
musical, voice  of  Madeleine  would  brighten  the 
bright  morning.  Then  the  shop,  with  its  spick  and 
span  boots,  its  dainty  chairs  and  foot-rests,  its 
show  cases,  its  polished  pay-desk,  its  glass  doorway 
on  which  the  name  of  Capdepuy  was  engraved  in 
big  curved  letters — all  this  would  have  to  be  dusted 
and  swept  and  poHshed  before  it  was  ready  for 
customers  at  eight. 

Then  Madeleine  would  rest,  going  leisurely  about 
her  housework,  or  sit  at  the  pay-desk  for  a  time. 
Dejeuner,  a  simple  affair,  was  snatched  when  it 
might  be — Henri  considered  the  midday  closing, 
prevalent  all  through  the  South  of  France,  an  in- 
dolent habit — and  during  the  afternoon  Madeleine 
lay  down  on  the  bed  and  learned  English. 

"  I  must  be  interested  in  something,"  she  insisted. 
"  And  besides,  I  want  Jean  to  know  English." 

Then  she  would  take  charge  of  the  shop  for  a 
little  time,  while  Henri  ran  to  the  cafe  across  the 
road — his  white  apron  made  an  alluring  patch  of 
cool  colour  there — to  have  his  glass  of  wine  and 
chat  with  his  cronies.  At  seven  or  thereabouts, 
the  shop  shut ;  there  was  a  huge  banging  of  doors 
and  noisy  setting  to  rights  of  the  furniture,  excited 
balancing  of  books,  gusty  laughs  from  Henri  and 
trills  and  giggles  from  Madeleine.     Then  the  yard 


THUI^DERWATER  127 

in  shirt-sleeves,  while  Madeleine  sat  by  and  sewed ; 
soup ;  and  bed. 

The  persistent  cough  which  accompanied  Henri 
appeared  Madeleine's  only  anxiety.  Sometimes 
from  the  little  room  behind  the  shop,  she  would 
stop  her  work  and  listen ;  shrug  her  shoulders ; 
continue  with  a  hard  little  laugh  that  did  not  reach 
her  eyes. 

In  his  spare  moments  Henri  tended  a  tiny  plot 
of  ground,  not  because  he  was  an  enthusiastic 
gardener  but  because,  as  he  explained  ruefully, 
"  money  becomes  shorter  as  one's  purse  gets  longer." 
Yet  he  grew,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  be  interested. 

"  Look  at  that  fine  cauliflower,"  he  exclaimed  to 
us  one  day.  "  Such  a  trouble  I  had  with  it.  You 
see,  when  it  was  young  I  somehow  took  a  fancy 
to  it,  poor  weakling  that  it  was.  We  were  both 
interested  in  it,  Madeleine  and  I.  We  reared  it 
ever  so  carefully — and  look  at  it  now." 

A  couple  of  children  were  Henri  and  Madeleine, 
and  child-hke,  had  put  all  their  eggs  in  one  basket. 
Their  entire  capital  was  in  the  boot-shop  and  their 
small  earnings  were  kept  locked  in  the  till.  One 
morning  the  blow  fell. 

Henri's  tousled  head  had  opened  the  shutter  for 
his  first  breath  of  morning  air,  when  some  vagary 
or  other  led  him  into  the  shop.  For  a  second  he 
stood  rooted  to  the  ground.  Then,  deliberately, 
he  walked,  clad  as  he  was  only  in  his  night-gown, 
over  to  our  window. 

"  May  I  have  a  word  with  you  ?  "  His  voice 
sounded  curiously  tremulous. 

I  jumped  out  of  bed. 

"  We  have  been  robbed,"  he  said.  ''  How  can  I 
tell  Madeleine  ?  " 

"  Tell  her  as  gently  as  you  can,"  I  suggested. 
"  My  wife  will  see  to  the  rest." 

Helen  spent   most  of   the  day  with   Madeleine 


128  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

while  Henri  and  I,  with  the  aid  of  useless  police- 
men, assessed  the  loss.  It  had  been,  it  seemed,  a 
pretty  complete  haul ;  not  only  money,  but  stock, 
had  been  taken  away  through  a  hole  made  to  lead 
into  a  side  passage.  Henri  went  about  in  a  repen- 
tant mood  as  if  he  alone  had  been  responsible.  *'  I 
could  not  get  insured,"  he  apologised,  "  they  want 
such  high  premiums  nowadays.  Before  the  war  I 
might  have  afforded  it,  but  then  it  did  not  seem 
worth  while." 

In  the  evening  we  sat  with  them  ;  a  gloomy  party 
at  first.     Then  Madeleine  said  suddenly  : 

"  We  have  a  lot  left,  Henri," 

He  did  not  at  first  catch  her  meaning,  but  laughed 
bitterly. 

"  I've  been  thinking.  With  care  he  will  still  be 
able  to  go  to  the  Lyc^e  ;  and  there  are  lots  of  big 
motor  works  who  will  be  glad  to  have  such  a  pro- 
mising boy.  Besides,  I  shall  have  taught  him  good 
English  .  .  ." 

She  laughed  ;  and  it  was  the  way  in  which  she  did 
it  that  made  the  rest  of  the  evening  happy. 


XII 

THE  INNOCENCE  OF  ARCACHON 


"  Go  to  Arcachon  if  you  like  sea-bathing,"  Henri 
told  me.  "  In  summer  it  is  calm,  with  sand  and 
little  boats  " — he  spread  out  one  hand  and  rippled 
the  other  over  the  air  in  vivid  imitation. 

Not  being  attracted  by  the  mud-baths  of  Dax,  I 
had  sighed  for  a  further  ghmpse  of  the  sea.  Leaving 
Helen  to  look  after  Madeleine  for  a  few  days,  I 
shouldered  my  pack  and  set  off  northward  along 
the  straight  flat  roads  of  the  Landes. 

A  companionless  tramp  is,  however,  a  most 
depressing  form  of  enjoyment.  No  one  seemed  to 
be  going  my  way.  I  could  see  my  destination 
almost  before  I  started,  and  as  the  pine  trees  slowly 
passed,  I  did  the  foolish  thing  and  began  to  coimt 
them.  The  long  road  seemed  to  close  in  about  me 
and  over  me  and  hundreds  of  mosquitoes  swarmed 
into  my  clothes.  The  villages  in  which  I  wanted  to 
spend  the  night  had  Httle  or  no  accommodation — 
I  "  rested,"  here  on  a  table,  there  in  an  outhouse. 
The  joys  of  sea-bathing  danced  constantly  in 
front  of  me  ;  and  on  the  third  day  I  grew  so  miserable 
at  the  slow  progress  I  was  making  that  I  wired  to 
Helen  to  join  me.  She,  I  knew,  would  cheer  me  up. 
I  met  her  at  the  station,  and  very  soon  we  were 
alongside  the  big  sand  dunes  that  lead  to  Arcachon. 

Immediately  we  arrived  at  the  inland  lake  on 
which  Arcachon  stands,  I  knew  I  had  seen  it  before. 


130  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

That  long  expanse  of  flat  shore,  reedy  near  the 
edges,  those  undulating  hillocks  in  the  distance, 
grey  under  a  grey  sky,  those  high  prowed  boats 
with  squat  sails  and  containing  Httle  dots  of  colour 
I  knew  to  be  men,  that  peaceful,  almost  unrippHng 
surface  of  lake — all  were  familiar.  They  were  parts 
of  the  Venetian  lagoon  as  I  had  seen  it  one  rainy 
Easter,  transported  bodily  into  France.  One  ex- 
pected to  hear  a  Venetian  boating  song  floating 
dreamily  from  the  grey ;  it  was  a  gramophone  in  a 
motor  yacht  that  brought  me  back  to  the  reaUty  of 
a  French  watering-place. 

Yet  surely  there  was  never  such  a  watering-place 
as  Arcachon.  Although  it  is  to  Bordeaux  very 
much  what  Southend  is  to  London,  it  is  the  most 
innocent  place  in  the  world.  All  the  oyster  fishermen 
and  some  of  the  fisherwomen  too — and  there  are 
hundreds  of  each — ^laze  about  the  town  in  crimson 
trousers  turned  up  to  the  knee,  and  in  blue  tunics, 
the  women  in  pleated  black  bonnets  which  project 
on  either  side  Hke  blinkers — can  you  imagine  this  at 
Southend  ?  More  than  half  the  bedrooms  at  Arca- 
chon open  directly  on  to  the  street  by  means  of 
French  windows,  which  are  always  flung  wide  :  yet 
never  a  theft  is  committed.  If  you  have  not  change 
in  Arcachon,  the  shopkeepers  tell  you  to  bring  it  at 
your  own  convenience.  The  animals  are,  strangely 
enough  for  France,  friendly  and  unafraid,  as  if  they 
knew  that  cruelty  could  not  Hve  in  that  atmosphere  ; 
the  swallows  skim  along  the  main  street  of  the  town 
scarcely  a  foot  above  the  ground,  unmolested  by  the 
small  boy  tribe.  Because,  perhaps,  most  of  the 
juvenile  natives  are  already  busy  about  their  fathers' 
business  on  the  oyster  beds  and  all  the  young 
visitors  are  amusing  themselves  on  the  sands. 

They  enjoy  themselves  immensely,  do  the  young- 
sters, for  Arcachon  seems  a  place  built  for  children 
by  children.     The  Uttle  villas  in  the  Ville  d'Et6  are 


THE  INNOCENCE  OF  ARCACHON   131 

like  dolls'  houses,  with  their  red  roofs  and  brightly- 
painted  walls  :  those  in  the  Ville  d'Hiver,  among 
the  pine  trees,  are  Hke  dolls'  houses  too,  but  more 
expensive  ones  for  rich  sophisticated  children  to 
play  in.  The  hotels,  with  neat  lawns  in  front  of 
them,  are  as  prim  and  as  wild  as  the  children  playing 
in  their  brightly-coloured  hoHday  clothes,  while  fond 
parents  gaze  from  the  shelter  of  bathing  tents  and 
sew,  read  or  sleep.  I  even  saw  two  immaculate 
Frenchmen  building  sand  castles.  .  .  . 

The  tide  retreats  a  long  way  from  the  promenade, 
leaving  an  immense  stretch  of  sand,  and,  in  its 
narrow  channel,  a  current  that  would  try  the  powers 
of  an  experienced  swimmer.  Both  of  us  being 
modest  exponents  of  the  art,  we  were  forced  into  the 
comparative  peace  of  high  tide.  And  it  did  not  take 
us  long  to  discover  that  high  tide  on  the  day  of  our 
arrival  was  at  perfectly  absurd  hours  of  the  evening 
and  morning.  No  bathing  for  a  day  or  two.  We 
settled  down  resignedly  to  wait. 

An  Enghsh  couple,  young,  athletic,  and  with  the 
severely  business-Hke  appearance  which  distinguishes 
EngUshmen  the  world  over,  attracted  our  attention. 
Helen  was  for  opening  conversation. 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  Let's  wait  to  see  whether  they 
speak  first." 

We  met  them  in  the  town,  on  the  beach  and  among 
the  pines.  We  sat  next  to  them  at  a  cafe.  That 
they  wanted  to  speak  was  obvious  :  they  would 
watch  us  even  as  we  watched  them — and  yet  they 
remained  silent.  Once,  on  leaving  the  cafe,  I  bade 
them  a  good-day.     There  was  no  response. 

"  You  are  a  queer  people,  you  English,"  said  a 
little  Frenchman  with  whom  I  sat  on  the  beach — he 
was  a  silk  merchant  of  Lyons,  I  believe — "  at 
home  you  are  courteous,  hospitable,  everything 
that  is  kind:  abroad  you  are  like  cats  about  to 
fight." 


182  AMONG  FEENCH  FOLK 

"  They  say,"  I  told  him,  "  that  it  requires  an 
accident  to  bring  English  people  together." 

"  An  accident — or  a  cup  of  tea,"  he  repUed. 

Then  I  remembered  that  it  was  coffee  we  had 
called  for. 

As  soon  as  the  tide  had  adjusted  itself  to  our  wish 
for  a  midday  bathe,  the  weather  changed.  For  a 
whole  day  the  rain  fell  as  though  the  heavens  had 
opened ;  the  next  day  was  cold,  the  following 
warmer,  but  dull  and  overcast.  Very  few  people  had 
ventured  previously  into  the  water  ;  now  there  were 
none.  They  looked  disconsolately  at  the  lapping 
tide,  with  its  fringe  of  seaweed  and  oyster  shells  ; 
came  bravely  down  from  the  hotels  and  villas,  a 
few  of  them,  in  resplendent  bathing  costumes 
wrapped  round  in  a  towel-like  dressing-gown  ;  and 
having  sufficiently  exhibited  themselves  to  the 
admiring  public,  hurried  back,  to  jump  thankfully 
into  warm  clothes. 

But  the  bedroom  windows  of  Arcachon  still  stood 
open  to  the  street,  and  the  swallows  skimmed  along 
the  Boulevard^  de  la  Plage.  And  as  for  the  sand 
children — ^they  were  on  the  beach  as  though  nothing 
in  the  world  could  disturb  them. 

n 

Our  landlady,  when  first  we  sought  rooms  in  a 
little  cafe  near  the  centre  of  the  town,  had  looked  at 
us  queerly.     She  seemed  to  be  measuring  us. 

"  M'sieu  est  anglais  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Bcmr 

The  bedroom  she  put  at  our  disposal  was  on  the 
ground  floor — typical  of  the  innocence  of  Arcachon — 
at  the  back  of  the  cafe  and  opened  on  to  a  garden 
shared  with  three  other  houses.  The  room  was  the 
second  of  a  row  of  four,  faced  by  a  trelHs  of  hops, 
blocking  out  the  direct  sunlight  but  affording  shade 
and  comfort  diu-ing  the  heat  of  the  day.     A  passage 


THE  INNOCENCE  OF  ARCACHON      133 

between  the  trellis  and  the  house  wall  gave  the  only 
access  to  all  four  rooms. 

"  You  must  let  me  know  at  once  if  you  are  not 
comfortable,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  trace  of  anxiety 
in  her  voice. 

Cleanliness,  at  least,  was  assured  though  cosiness 
seemed  but  a  remote  possibility.  The  polished 
woodwork  of  the  fittings  and  the  ungracious  hard- 
ness of  the  chairs  made  the  room  appear  as  steely 
as  a  knife-blade.  It  looked  cold  in  the  midst  of  the 
rich  evening  glow,  virginal. 

Being  healthily  tired,  we  went  to  bed  early.  I 
was  on  the  point  of  dropping  ofE  to  sleep  when  Helen 
shook  my  arm. 

"  There's  a  dog  at  the  door,"  she  said. 

I  "  shoo'd  "  violently ;  then  got  out  of  bed  and 
lit  the  lamp.     There  was  nothing. 

"  Must  have  been  next  door  ?  "  I  grunted. 

About  half  an  hour  later  Helen  exclaimed : 

"  There  he  is  again.     Inside  the  room,  this  time." 

I  repeated  my  performance,  with  the  same  result. 
I  partly  closed  the  door  by  a  chair. 

For  the  third  time  Helen  heard  the  dog.  I  heard 
him  myself — a  big  brute,  he  sounded,  heavy  and 
dehberate  of  tread.  He  entered  the  door,  snuffed 
round  the  walls,  shuffled  against  the  furniture, 
breathing  heavily,  and  occasionally  giving  a  tiny 
whine  as  if  in  distress. 

I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  struck  the  match  I  had 
placed  ready. 

For  the  third  time  there  was  nothing. 

So  I  shut  the  door,  went  to  sleep  and  woke  up 
next  morning  with  a  headache. 

We  looked  carefully  during  the  day  for  any  sign 
of  a  dog  about  the  place  but  there  was  none.  That 
night,  too,  though  our  windows  were  open  to  their 
fullest,  we  were  undisturbed. 

On  the  third  night,   he  came  again — the  same 


134  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

heavy  tread,  shuffling  agamst  the  furniture,  dis- 
tressed whining.  When  I  Ht  the  lamp  the  sound 
ceased. 

We  left  it  aUght  with  the  windows  still  open 
and  listened.  It  seemed  as  if  our  visitor  had  left 
us. 

Then,  softly,  we  heard  him  coming  along  the 
passage — distant  at  first,  but  gradually  approaching. 
He  was  crying  to  himself,  poor  devil,  and  panting 
between  the  sobs.  "  He  must  be  very  old,"  I 
thought,  "  to  have  so  much  difficulty  in  walking  a 
short  distance.  Or  perhaps  he  has  been  keeping  a 
constant  vigil  all  night." 

The  sound  of  his  feet  drew  opposite  our  door  but 
no  patient  eyes  and  lolling  tongue  accompanied  it. 
It  entered  the  room,  and  as  it  came  near  a  chair  .  .  . 
the  chair  moved  .  .  .  ever  so  slightly  .  .  .  but 
moved.  .  .  . 

Helen  clutched  my  arm. 

"  Goodness  gracious  !  "  she  whispered  convul- 
sively. 

I  was  not  in  the  mood  at  the  moment  to  make 
any  reply. 

The  sound  scraped  along  the  opposite  wall, 
bumped  up  against  our  knapsacks,  and  then  turned 
the  corner.     It  was  approaching  the  bed.  .  .  . 

I  seized  my  stick — a  heavy  one,  with  an  inch  of 
good  steel  at  the  end  .  .  .  but  one  cannot  hit  a 
sound. 

"  Do  you  see  anything  ?  "  I  whispered  to  Helen, 
for  her  eyes  were  starting  out  of  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  jerked  back. 

The  sound  continued  to  approach.  It  was  very 
near  the  bed. 

"  Do  something  !  "     Helen  was  almost  hysterical. 

I  had  the  alternatives  of  putting  my  head  under 
the  clothes  in  one  convulsive  bolt,  or  flinging  myself 
out  of  bed.     Fortunately,  I  did  the  latter. 


THE  INNOCENCE  OF  AECACHON      136 

The  sound  ceased  immediately. 

The  next  morning  I  had  a  frank  talk  with  the 
landlady. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  apologetically.  "  I 
thought  that,  being  Enghsh,  you  wouldn't  mind." 

"I'm  sorry  to  lower  your  estimate  of  my  country- 
men," I  replied,  "  but  we  do." 

"  You  shall  have  another  room,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

"  He  belonged  to  my  husband,"  she  told  us 
during  the  day,  "  who  had  had  him  for  years.  His 
name  was  Dique — as  fine  a  dog  as  any  man  could 
want — and  knowing.  .  .  . 

"  One  time,  we  had  a  lodger  whom  my  husband 
didn't  trust.  I  don't  know  why  ;  but  men  at  times 
have  these  feelings  about  one  another.  Dique  didn't 
trust  him  either.  Dique  would  growl  or  sulk  when- 
ever this  lodger  came  by.  At  night  he  would  prowl 
up  and  down  outside  his  door.  One  night,  when 
the  lodger  had  been  here  about  a  week,  Dique  went 
into  his  room.  The  brute  of  a  man  shot  him.  Poor 
Dique.  I  think  he  still  looks  everywhere  for  my 
husband — ^just  as  my  husband  is  always  looking 
for  poor  old  Dique." 

"  And  the  room,"  I  ventured. 

"  Was  the  one  you  slept  in,  M'sieu.  However, 
you  will  be  comfortable  enough  to-night.'* 

But  that  remained  to  be  seen. 

in 

If  you  are  a  squeamish  person,  you  will  be  well 
advised  to  omit  this  story  of  why  we  left  Arcachan 
to  look  after  itself  and  hurried  to  a  hot  bath  to 
Bordeaux. 

From  the  very  first  night  in  the  new  room  we 
wished  to  be  back  in  the  old.  The  phantom  dog 
was  preferable  to  the  visitors  who  awaited  us. 

"  Do  you  really  think  it  was  true  ?  "  asked  Helen, 
alluding  to  Dique. 


136  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Don't  know,"  I  replied.  "  I  only  know  that 
this  is,"  and  I  scratched  violently. 

It  was  They  who  pestered  us  with  their  attentions. 
I  have  seen  enlarged  models  of  Them  in  museums, 
but  none  gives  an  adequate  idea  of  Their  ferocity. 

Our  life  became  a  perpetual  hunt  and  Uttle  moun- 
tain ranges,  not  in  Nature's  original  plan,  appeared 
on  our  bodies. 

"  We  must  do  something  about  it,"  exclaimed 
Helen. 

So  we  bathed.  They  seemed  to  enjoy  the  salt 
water.  I  scoured  the  village  for  a  disinfectant  and 
we  washed  in  it.  They  licked  their  chops  and  bit 
the  more  merrily. 

One  day  we  searched  the  mattress — a  tremen- 
dously thorough  search,  which  left  nothing  to  be 
discovered.     We  found  no  trace. 

"  It  must  be  heat  spots,"  I  suggested.  The 
explanation  was  obviously  ridiculous  but  served  to 
soothe  our  ruffled  tempers.  For  a  day  it  made  us 
almost  amiable. 

I  suggested  a  bath  to  the  landlady.  She  looked 
surprised  and  brought  us  a  small  jug  of  tepid 
water. 

"  Have  you  nothing  larger  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  There  is  the  sea,"  she  repUed  without  sarcastic 
intention. 

I  looked  round  the  cafe  buildings. 

"  Have  you  never  had  a  bath  here  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  Not  since  the  EtabUssement  des  Bains  was 
built ;    they  took  ours  away." 

I  was  reminded  of  a  dialogue  between  a  traveller 
and  a  hotel  servant  in  the  Rhone  Valley. 

Traveller  :  I  should  like  a  bath,  please. 

Servant  :  When  does  M'sieu  want  it  ? 

T.  :  Now,  to  be  sure. 

S.  :  But  M'sieu  must  give  two  days'  notice,  so 
that  we  can  fetch  the  bath. 


THE  INNOCENCE  OF  ARCACHON      137 

T. :  Good  Heavens  !  And  you  call  this  the  Hotel 
des  Bains  !     Why,  I  wonder  ? 

S.  :  Because,  M'sieu,  it  is  built  on  the  site  of  the 
Roman  baths. 

We  had  to  content  ourselves  with  the  perfectly 
useless  tepid  water  ;  some  fooUsh  Enghsh  reticence 
prevented  us  from  telUng  our  landlady  that  her  room 
was  flea-ridden.     We  didn't  want  to  appear  faddy. 

*'  You  see,"  remarked  Helen  reminiscently,  "  it 
seems  to  be  the  rule  out  here." 

"  Except  where  the  English  have  taught  'em 
better,"  I  answered. 

Not  even  in  the  Army  did  I  sigh  more  strongly  for 
home  comforts.  Helen's  experiences  in  hospitals  and 
at  munition  factories  paled  before  those  at  Arcachon. 

Still  They  came.  Processions  of  Them,  which 
refused  to  diminish.  Had  it  been  in  a  worthier 
cause,  such  perseverance  would  have  been  exemplary. 

"  Let's  move  to  another  room,"  cried  Helen 
vehemently. 

Then  came  the  discussion  as  to  what  other  room 
we  should  go  to.  When  we  first  entered  this  one  it 
had  appeared  so  poUshed,  so  free  from  any  sort  of 
dust,  that  to  have  thought  of  Them  would  have 
seemed  desecration. 

Our  faith  in  Arcachon  was  undermined.  Might 
not  any  room  prove  a  similar  hot-bed  ?  Might  not 
every  person  we  met  contaminate  us  further  ? 
What  about  the  EngHsh  couple  ?  Had  a  nervous 
consciousness  of  their  own  state  prevented  them 
from  speaking  ?  Such  endless  possibiHties  were 
opened  up  .  .  . 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  said  Helen. 

"  To  clear  out  altogether." 

"  To  Bordeaux  ?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  To  a  big  hotel  with  hot  water  in  every  room, 
with  baths  you  can  drown  yourself  in  and  bath 


138  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

towels  that  smother  you,  with  electric  light  and 
electric  fans  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  everything  that's 
nice,"  concluded  Helen  lamely. 

"  A  good  idea,"  I  agreed.  "  But  you're  going  it 
somewhat." 

"  Anything  to  be  rid  of  them,"  exclaimed  Helen. 
"  It  is  worth  all  the  treasure  of  the  Incas." 

In  a  few  hours  we  were  on  our  way  to  Bordeaux  ; 
in  a  few  more  hours  you  might  have  heard  splashes 
and  gurgles  and  sounds  of  subdued  joy  from  two 
bath-rooms  on  the  second  floor. 

I  told  you  this  was  an  unpleasant  story.  But  it 
is  perfectly  true,  as  you  may  find  for  yourself  if  you 
go  to  Arcachon ;  and  you  will  admit  that  it  has  a 
happy  ending. 


XIII 

WINE   WATER  AND    SAND 


Bits  of  England  seem  to  have  crept  into  the  Medoc — 
the  great  triangular  vineyard  north  of  Bordeaux 
bounded  on  the  one  side  by  the  Gironde  and  on  the 
other  by  the  sea.  No  one  could  mistake  the  flat, 
yellow-red  roofed  villages  with  their  immense 
churches  or  the  perfectly  straight  roads,  like  rockets 
shooting  to  the  far  horizon,  or  the  forests  of  fir  and 
the  blue-sprayed  vineyards,  for  anything  but  French. 
They  cry  out  to  you  in  unmistakable  language  that 
they  are  the  Medoc,  the  country  of  Chateau  Lafite, 
and  of  other  glowing  wines.  The  curious  double- 
decked  train,  its  upper  compartments  reached  by 
stairs  like  the  top  of  an  omnibus  and  often  stuffy 
with  the  heavy  smoke  of  the  engine,  positively  puffs 
its  nationahty.  But  in  spite  of  it  all  there  is  a  feeling 
that  the  train  and  the  villages  and  the  firs  and  the 
vineyards — even  the  roads — are  not  telling  the 
whole  truth.  There  is  something  in  addition — 
something  famiHar  and  rich  and  homely,  usually 
absent  from  the  landscapes  of  France. 

Not  very  far  from  Bordeaux,  the  French  train 
runs  through  an  English  forest — a  forest  of  oak 
and  elm  with  spaces  of  quiet  green  meadows  and 
winding  overgrown  streams.  Every  now  and  then 
a  glade  opens,  and  you  see  deep  into  the  mottled 
sunlight  of  the  place — a  bank  of  simple  flowers,  a 
mossy  hillock,  a  green  pool.     Or  a  giant  elm,  beneath 


140  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

which  nestles  a  cottage,  recalls  the  beauties  of  the 
Southern  Midlands,  the  park  lands  of  Northampton 
and  North  Bucks.  To  Helen  it  was  a  ghmpse  of 
home. 

But  here  it  is  all  on  the  flat,  as  if  planted  on  a 
billiard  table ;  vines,  too,  break  the  dream ;  you 
return  to  it  only  with  the  potato  fields.  Some 
artist  has  said  that  the  most  beautiful  sight  one 
could  wish  to  see  is  a  field  of  cabbages  in  the  evening 
sun ;  fields  of  potatoes  in  France  run  it  close.  There 
are  acres  upon  acres  of  them  in  the  Medoc,  casually 
interspersed  with  maize  and  other  crops.  They 
make  you  feel  homesick ;  you  conjure  up  a  stoUd 
EngHsh  agricultural  labourer  working  unhurryingly 
in  their  midst. 

"...  well,  sur,  the  guv' nor  due  expec'  a  fair 
crop  this  yuur,  so  Oi've  'eered  'ee  sai,  but  some 
raien'ud  due  a  foine  lot  twaerds  it,  Oi'm  thinkin'  .  .  ." 

Or  again,  the  cherry  trees,  Httle  masses  of  crimson 
against  the  green  and  brown.  The  guard  on  the 
train  enjoyed  himself  immensely  with  them.  At 
every  station  he  ran  along  the  line,  gathered  a 
cap-full  of  the  best  and  returned  to  the  passengers 
(female)  who  had  been  watching  the  operation. 

"  For  Mad'm'selle,"  he  would  say  gallantly,  and 
climbing  up  the  footboard,  tip  the  ripe  load  into 
her  hands.  Then  back  went  the  cap  on  his  head 
and  he  into  his  van,  and  the  little  train  snorted 
once  more  to  the  next  station,  where  the  service 
would  be  repeated. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  considers  it  part  of  his  duty," 
said  Helen  somewhat  tartly.  She  was  thirsty  and 
he  had  passed  her  by. 

"  Perhaps  the  tree  was  his,"  I  suggested,  watching 
another  cap-full  being  bestowed  elsewhere. 

"  They  can't  all  belong  to  him." 

"  To  the  railway  company,  then,  for  the  benefit 
of  passengers  !  " 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  141 

Helen  sniffed.  "  I  don't  believe  he's  any  right 
to  do  it,  any  way,"  she  said. 

"  Plenty  of  sour  grapes  about  if  you'd  like  some," 
I  remarked. 

Helen  lapsed  into  indignant  silence. 

Suddenly  the  landscape  changes.  The  forests, 
the  vines,  the  potato  fields,  disappear  as  if  they 
had  been  part  of  a  cinematograph  film  which  had 
come  to  the  end  of  the  reel.  Wooded  marshy 
lands  with  cattle  deep  in  the  lush  grass — ^like  the 
Essex  or  Rye  marshes — ^take  their  place.  And 
then  you  see  for  the  first  time  the  pine-covered 
sand  dunes. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  have  been  following  you 
all  the  way  up  from  Arcachon,  even  from  Biarritz — 
nearly  two  hundred  miles  of  them,  stern  and  heart- 
less, supporting  little  life,  irresistible  as  waves  of 
the  sea.  At  Soulac  here  in  front  of  us,  they  entirely 
buried  a  church  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  as 
the  wave  of  sand  moved  on,  left  it  high  and  dry 
again,  its  stone  polished  as  though  it  had  been 
newly  built.  These  encroachments  have  been 
partially  stopped  by  the  pine  forests  ;  but  in  the 
spaces  between  the  trees  the  sand  is  still  imper- 
ceptibly drifting.  Perhaps,  one  day,  it  will  bury 
the  forests  ;  for  in  parts  the  dunes  are  over  two 
hundred  feet  in  height. 

And  beyond  the  sand,  the  sea,  encroaching  too ; 
nothing  seems  permanent  along  this  coast.  It 
has  swallowed  up  the  harbour  of  Soulac  altogether, 
and  an  old  Roman  town  ;  a  lighthouse,  which  now 
stands  five  or  six  miles  out,  was  once  on  the  mainland. 
The  sand  makes  way  for  the  sea  ;  the  sea  makes 
way  for  more  sea  ;  the  rivers  contribute  towards 
the  swelling  of  the  sea  and  the  deposits  of  further 
sand.  What  a  sterile  circle  Nature  sometimes 
provides  for  our  entertainment. 

Soulac,  however,  watches  this  entertainment  with 


142  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

equanimity.  The  sand  and  the  sea  are  its  raison 
d^Hre.  A  few  small  villas,  a  ramshackle  hotel,  a 
few  shops — that  is  all  there  is  of  Soulac  ;  but  it 
looks  out  on  to  the  broad  ocean  with  a  smile.  For 
as  long  as  the  sand  and  sea  remain,  people  will  flock 
to  it.  At  Soulac  the  sands  are  golden — Shakespeare's 
"  yellow  sands  " — spacious  and  flat  and  cleanly  ;  the 
sea,  when  it  is  calm,  can  scarcely  work  itself  into  a 
ripple.  It  is  only  behind  Soulac  that  the  sands  of 
death  accumulate ;  those  before  it  are  the  sands  of 
life,  which,  far  from  running  out,  as  the  morahsts 
would  have  it,  stick  to  the  fingers  in  warm,  sunlit 
joy,  and  laugh  and  sparkle  like  the  red  wine  of 
M^doc  when  the  sun  goes  down  into  the  west.  The 
sterile  circle,  apparently,  has  its  compensations. 

If  you  watch  carefully,  you  can  see  the  shore 
being  cleared  by  Nature's  scavenging  department. 
Millions  of  scavengers  there  are,  all  hopping  before 
the  rising  tide  like  a  vast  ballet,  fastening  upon 
dead  or  unclean  matter  and  devouring  it — ^little 
land  shrimps,  colourless  as  glass,  Hving  between 
high  and  low  water  mark,  whose  duty  in  Hfe  is  to 
keep  fresh  the  beach  for  their  mistress,  the  sea.  A 
chivalrous  Hfe,  one  would  think,  Hke  a  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  perpetually  spreading  his  cloak  for  his 
Queen  to  walk  over ;  inglorious  yet  finer,  for  they 
are  such  very  humble  courtiers.  And  how  meanly 
are  they  repaid  by  the  alHance  of  sea  and  sand, 
sterile  and  cruel.  Yet  it  is  not  theirs  to  question, 
but  to  cleanse.  They  at  sea  and  beetles  in  the  sand, 
born  to  serve  greed  and  destruction.  .  .  . 

Has  cleanliness,  after  all,  anything  to  do  with 
Godliness  ? 

n 

It  was  at  Soulac  that  we  ran  against  Napoleon  Bax 
again.  He  had  a  villa  there,  to  which,  he  explained, 
his  wife  would  be  coming  later.     He  himself  had 


*    WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  143 

snatched  a  holiday  when  it  offered,  and  for  the 
moment  the  Luz  Electricity  Scheme  could  wait.  He 
had  only  just  arrived  and  was  full  of  enthusiasm. 
He  walked  with  every  muscle  of  his  httle  body, 
his  beard  stuck  out  with  prodigious  energy,  Ms 
creased  face  was  lighted  by  a  boyish  smile.  He 
trotted  up  to  us  and  kissed  us  on  both  cheeks. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  he  cried  jubilantly,  "  my 
very  dear  friends.     This  is  indeed  a  joy  !  " 

He  wrung  our  hands. 

"  Luz — Soulac,"  he  cried.  "  Indeed  the  world 
is  small !  " 

And  then  he  unconsciously  hit  below  the  belt  at 
the  solar  plexus  of  our  guilt. 

"  How's  the  donkey  ?  "  he  enquired  amiably. 

"  Gone,"  repUed  Helen,  in  a  tone  which  impHed 
the  close  of  the  conversation. 

"  Never  !  "  ejaculated  Bax.  "  Gone — dead,  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Sold.  Monsieur,  we  have  a  confession  to  make. 
It  was  Marcus  who  ate  your  plans." 

M.  Bax  looked  stupefied  for  some  seconds,  and 
then  said  : 

"  Nom  de  nom,  it  is  incredible  !  Such  a  beast  is 
worth  his  weight  in  gold.  What  knowledge  he 
contains  !  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  got  even  the  value  of  the 
paper  for  him,"  I  remarked. 

"  That  was  a  bad  bargain,  then,"  replied  Bax 
seriously.  "  We  must  try  to  strike  a  better  one. 
Come  and  dine  with  me  this  evening." 

His  villa  contained  only  three  small  rooms,  and 
where  he  managed  to  store  all  his  wine  was  a 
mystery. 

"  You  must  look  in  the  sand,"  he  told  us  in  jest ; 
but  I  believe  that,  had  we  chosen  to  dig  up  his 
enclosed  patch  of  garden,  we  should  have  found  the 
jest  to  have  been  earnest.     He  was  a  connoisseur 


144  AMONG  FEENCH  FOLK 

in  wines  and  intimate  with  some  of  the  most  in- 
fluential growers  of  the  Medoc.  A  pronounced 
strain  of  economy  running  through  him,  he  would 
surely  have  seen  the  value  of  cool,  shaded  sand  (his 
garden  was  closely  surrounded  by  pine  trees)  as 
an  admirable  wine  cellar — as  long,  that  is,  as  it 
remained  secret. 

"  You  must  bathe  with  me  to-morrow,"  he 
exclaimed  as  we  sat  later  on  the  little  verandah. 
"It  is  early  yet,  of  course,  but  I  believe  in  vigour 
and  rigour  for  the  body." 

It  was  then  at  the  end  of  June  ! 

We  appeared  from  our  lodgings  at  midday  in 
scanty  bathing  apparel,  with  towels  thrown  round 
our  shoulders,  and  found  M.  Bax  fussily  superin- 
tending the  erection  of  a  beach  tent. 

"  You  will  catch  cold,"  he  cried  anxiously. 

We  repudiated  the  suggestion,  saying  that  the 
one  thing  we  feared  was  sunstroke,  but  he  insisted 
on  lending  us  warm  wraps.  Meanwhile,  the  tent 
having  been  erected,  Bax  drew  the  curtains  and 
amid  much  puffing,  blowing  and  snatches  of  song 
proceeded  to  undress.  He  emerged  some  minutes 
later  in  a  resplendent  claret-coloured  costume  with 
the  initials  "  N.B."  blazoned  in  royal  blue  on  the 
chest.  Around  himself  he  had  wrapped  an  enormous 
towel. 

"  I  am  ready,"  he  cried,  letting  the  tent  curtains 
drop  dramatically  behind  him. 

Still  wrapped  in  his  towel,  he  made  his  way  to  the 
water's  edge  ;  let  it  fall  as  an  Emperor  might  have 
let  fall  his  purple ;  and,  with  a  look  of  determination, 
advanced  towards  the  sea. 

M.  Bax  was  not  a  swimmer.  He  explained  that 
beyond  the  breakers — some  of  them  quite  eighteen 
inches  in  height — ^there  were  strong  currents.  Also 
there  were  jellyfish  of  monstrous  proportions  ;  he 
pointed  out  one  or  two  dead  ones  already  on  the 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  146 

beach,  and  they  were  unpleasant  to  look  upon. 
Again,  the  Luz  Electricity  Scheme 

M.  Bax,  therefore,  was  taking  no  risks. 

He  lay  at  nearly  full  length  in  just  enough  water 
to  cover  him,  and  carefully  removing  his  head  and 
beard  from  the  sphere  of  operations,  allowed  the 
incoming  waves  to  fall  on  to  his  bulk.  That  this 
pleased  him  was  evident ;  he  smiled  benignly  on  as 
much  of  the  world  as  he  could  see,  nodded  familiarly 
to  a  passing  acquaintance  on  the  beach — one  expected 
him  to  light  a  cigarette  and  placidly  inhale  it. 

For  about  five  minutes  he  lay  thus,  and  then, 
solemnly  rising,  stalked  to  his  towel  and  disappeared 
into  his  tent. 

When  Helen  and  I  had  finished  disporting  our- 
selves, we  made  our  merry  way  towards  our  com- 
panion.     He  met  us  with  a  glass  of  red  wine  for  each. 

"  An  excellent  preventative  against  cold,"  he 
remarked  sagely,  and  forced  us  to  drink  it. 

R-ed  wine  and  sea  water  are  not  the  best  aperitif 
to  a  healthy  meal. 

We  lay  recuperating  in  his  tent  most  of  the 
afternoon,  while  Bax  strolled  about  the  beach, 
collecting  shells  for  his  "  museum."  To  the  best  of 
my  belief,  he  forgot  them  when  the  tent  was  struck 
and  they  lie  there  to  this  day  ;  he  had  commenced 
one  of  his  interminable  disquisitions  on  the  Luz 
Electricity  Scheme. 

With  bathing,  lying  on  the  beach,  talking 
electricity,  we  passed  several  pleasant  days.  One 
afternoon  Bax  approached  me  at  a  trot.  I  knew 
something  was  "  in  the  wind." 

*'  M.  Chatillon  is  speaking  here  to-night,"  he 
exclaimed  excitedly. 

"  Indeed." 

"  Yes,  you  must  hear  him  !  A  most  eloquent 
speaker — vivid,  humorous,  pathetic,  what  you  will. 
He  will  make  you  cry  and  laugh  in  the  same  breath. 


146  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

The  last  time  I  heard  him  .  .  ." — and  there  followed 
a  description  so  dramatic  that  he  required  most  of 
the  roadway  to  do  it  justice. 

"  But  who  is  this  M.  Chatillon  ?  "  I  asked  inno- 
cently. 

"  Mon  Dieuy  he  does  not  know  Chatillon  \  Cha- 
tillon is  a  Depute — a  most  learned  man,  a  wise 
statesman,  a  cute  poUtician,  a  man  of  affairs,  a 
thorn  in  the  side  of  the  Government,  a " 

I  concluded  that  Bax  and  Chatillon  were  of  the 
same  political  colour. 

m 

It  appeared  that  M.  Chatillon  had,  on  a  recent 
occasion,  given  a  vote  displeasing  to  his  constituents. 
They  were  roused  to  a  high  pitch  of  indignation  at 
what  they  considered  a  plain  betrayal  of  their 
interests,  and  with  an  eye  to  the  next  election, 
M.  Chatillon  had  to  humble  himself  before  them — 
"  explain  his  position,"  he  called  it — at  a  series  of 
public  meetings  in  towns  and  villages.  That  at 
Soulac  promised  to  be  good  fun. 

M.  Bax,  as  a  personage  of  some  social  standing, 
was  asked  to  support  the  member,  while  the  Mayor, 
an  insignificant  Uttle  man  whose  name  I  forget, 
took  the  chair  with  nervous  impartiahty.  The 
village  folk,  enthusiastic  pohticians  from  more  out- 
lying villages,  a  few  visitors,  and  even  some  ladies, 
crowded  into  the  stifling  cafe  where  the  meeting 
was  held.     M.  Chatillon  did  not  forget  the  ladies. 

The  meeting  was  timed  to  start  at  nine  o'clock  ; 
and  by  half -past  seven  the  first  traps  and  cycles  had 
begun  to  arrive  at  the  doors  and  disgorge  their 
owners  into  the  cafe,  where  they  whiled  away  the 
time  with  many  drinks  and  stronger  discussions. 
As  the  room  grew  more  and  more  crowded,  it  became 
plain  that  M.  Chatillon  was  Hkely  to  enjoy  an  unkind 
reception,  his  supporters  being  few  and  timid,  while 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  147 

his  opponents  were  rapidly  warming  to  their  work. 
They  were  aheady  flashing  the  fire  of  righteous 
indignation,  strong  fists,  furious  eyes,  high  words, 
into  the  inoffensive  faces  of  the  Chatillon-ites, 
who  had  been  driven  into  small  parties  in  remote 
corners  of  the  room,  while  they  remained  a  soHd 
block  in  the  centre. 

Soon  after  the  appointed  time,  the  Mayor, 
Chatillon  and  Bax — the  last  full  of  self-importance- 
entered  the  room  amidst  an  ominous  silence.  A 
tentative  cheer  from  the  Chatillon-ites  was  quelled 
by  the  moral  force  of  the  surrounding  stillness.  The 
three  took  their  places  ;  and  immediately  Chatillon 
rose  again. 

"  Mes  amis,''  he  said  with  a  bland  smile,  "  we 
do  not  want  formal  discussions  here.  This  is  a 
heart-to-heart  talk  between  friends,  and  as  such  is 
best  over  a  glass  of  wine.  Order  what  you  wish, 
messieurs,  mesdames." 

Hubbub  reigned  for  a  few  minutes,  over  which 
Chatillon  cast  the  benign  glance  of  a  guardian 
angel.  He  Ht  a  cigar,  stroked  his  moustaches 
thoughtfully,  nodded  to  his  semi-exiled  supporters, 
bowed  to  the  wife  of  one  of  them,  spoke  cheerfully 
to  an  opponent — did  all  those  things,  in  short, 
which  it  is  tactful  for  a  Member  of  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  to  do  in  such  circumstances. 

When  quiet  had  been  restored  and  the  room 
twinkled  with  the  light  of  wine,  the  Mayor  rose. 

"  Fellow  citizens  of  Soulac,"  he  commenced 
nervously.  "  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  recapitulate 
the  history  of  what  has  led  to  the  calling  of  this 
meeting  ;  it  is  well  known  by  you  all.  Some  of 
you  approve  of  what  our  worthy  Depute  has  done  ; 
others  do  not.  It  is  far  from  my  wishes  to  take 
the  one  part  or  the  other.  Those  of  you  who  are 
eager  for  an  explanation  will  doubtless  be 
enUghtened ;  those  of  you  who  come  to  applaud 


148  AMONG  FRENCH    FOLK 

our  worthy  Depute  will  not  have  come  in  vain. 
It  is  not  my  intention  to  delay  the  meeting  for  more 
than  a  few  moments  while  I  .  .  ."  (here  followed 
the  platitudinous  twenty  minutes  in  which  a  chair- 
man indulges). 

M.  Chatillon  rose  affably ;  and  his  supporters, 
doubtless  acting  on  a  pre-arranged  signal,  broke 
into  a  storm  of  applause. 

"  My  friends,"  commenced  the  Member.  "  You 
want  to  know  the  reasons  for  my  vote.  1  will  be 
blunt  with  you — I  will  put  my  case  so  convincingly 
that  you  cannot — even  my  bitterest  opponents, 
gentlemen — cannot  but  be  pacified.  You  have  come 
to  jibe  ;  you  will  remain  to  applaud.     You  ..." 

"  Gargon,  encore  un  vin,'''  came  suddenly  from 
the  centre  of  the  room. 

Chatillon  beamed  with  positive  approval  at  the 
interrupter. 

"  You  will,  when  you  have  heard  my  explanation, 
feel  that  .  .  ." 

"  Apportez-moi  un  hock,^^ 

"  Feel  with  me  that  my  vote  was  influenced  only 
and  entirely  by  the  best  interests  of  the  Medoc." 

There  was  a  titter  at  this,  but  Chatillon  ignored  it. 

"  You  will  remember  .  .  ."he  continued. 

*'  We  remember  much." 

"  But  will  you  remember  ?  "  The  two  "  voices  " 
were  both  from  the  centre  of  the  opposition. 

"  Ah,  my  good  friends,  Truchon  and  Lancret," 
cried  M.  Chatillon,  wagging  a  fleshy  forefinger  in 
their  direction,  "  it  is  you  again,  is  it  ?  You  would 
do  better  to  listen  than  to  interrupt."  (Derisive 
laughter.) 

"  It  is  you  who  will  be  listening  soon,"  cried 
someone. 

Step  by  step,  Chatillon  pluckily  unfolded  his 
defence,  the  opposition  growing  bolder  and  bolder. 
What  he  said  was  difiicult  to  f oUow,  for  every  now 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  149 

and  then  he  would  launch  into  a  torrent  of  invective, 
or  swing  himself  up  to  the  skies  on  a  wave  of  fervid 
patriotism  which  interrupted  the  flow  of  his  argu- 
ment and  gave  the  enemy  ample  cause  to  blaspheme 
— an  opportunity  of  which  full  advantage  was  taken. 
"  Ldche,''  "  coquin,"'  "  escroc,''  flew  about  the  room 
like  hornets.     The  Mayor  appealed  for  order. 

"  Fellow  citizens,"  he  cried,  vehemently  waving 
his  hands,  "  words  are  being  used  which  are  not 
for  the  ears  of  ladies.  Mon  Dieu,  no.  I  appeal  to 
you  for  moderation." 

"  Let  the  women  go  out,  then,"  advised  a  voice — 
advice  upon  which  most  of  the  ladies  present  acted. 
With   the   atmosphere   thus    cleared,    the   hornets 
increased  in  activity  and  numbers. 

Chatillon  at  last  sat  down  amid  applause  from  his 
handful  of  supporters  and  terrific  cheering — ^relief, 
possibly — ^from  his  opponents. 

The  meeting,  the  Mayor  announced,  was  thrown 
open  to  other  speakers. 

Lancret  and  Truchon,  who  seemed  prominent  in 
the  anti-Chatillon  camp,  were  on  their  feet  in  an 
instant,  each  haranguing  such  of  his  followers  as 
could  hear  him.  A  Chatillon-ite  dared  to  interrupt ; 
his  Hfe  was  spared  owing  to  the  personal  inter- 
vention of  the  Member.  The  Mayor  tried  to  restore 
order  ;  he  was  howled  down.  Questions  innumerable 
were  pHed,  some  of  which  Chatillon  noted  on  a  piece 
of  paper.  Songs  were  sung  and  their  choruses 
shouted  by  the  anti-Chatillon-ites.  One  by  one, 
adherents  of  the  Member  disappeared  for  some 
reason  or  another  through  the  door.  Bax  grew 
nervous,  the  Mayor  distraught ;  only  Chatillon 
appeared  unmoved. 

Presently  the  babel  subsided  somewhat,  and 
M.  Chatillon  rose  to  make  his  reply.  More  torrents 
of  invective,  more  patriotic  outbursts,  varied  this 
time  by  gigantic  statistics,  which  he  seemed  only 


150  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

just  to  have  recalled.  Bax's  eyes  glowed  in  renewed 
confidence  as  the  anti-Chatillon-ites  sat  mute  before 
these  astounding  figures  ;  he  made  little  ejaculations 
of  admiration  as  the  Depute  rolled  them  forth.  At 
one  point  I  caught  the  single  word  "  electriciU,^^ 
and  saw  Bax  clap  his  hands  vociferously.  M.  Bax 
was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight. 

At  the  close,  even  before  the  Mayor  or  the  anti- 
Chatillon-ites  had  had  time  to  intervene,  Bax  was 
on  his  feet. 

"  A  vote  of  confidence ! "  he  shouted,  swept 
away  by  his  own  enthusiasm.  "  Cheers  for  our 
Depute  !  " 

As  one  man  the  meeting  rose  and  made  for  the 
platform.  There  was  a  deafening  noise ;  someone 
beside  me  said  :  "  Good-bye,  Chatillon  !  "  The  light 
went  out. 

I  found  myself  in  the  fresh  air  with  my  watch 
showing  1.15  a.m. 

*'  I  wonder  which  part  of  the  Medoc  that  meeting 
belongs  to,"  I  asked  the  stars,  "  wine  water  or 
sand  ?  " 

IV 

Four  or  five  miles  from  Soulac,  and  on  the  Gironde 
side  of  the  Medoc,  lies  Le  Verdon.  For  every  ounce 
of  Soulac's  vivacity  Le  Verdon  has  two  of  utter 
remoteness.  And  by  that  curious  irony  of  chance, 
which  is  called  progress,  if  Bordeaux  really  decides 
to  build  the  "  avant-port^'^  it  so  badly  needs,  it 
will  probably  choose  Le  Verdon  for  the  site.  The 
little  fishing  village  will  be,  at  one  stroke,  transformed 
into  a  busy  harbour.     But  that  is  anticipating  .  .  . 

Though  even  now  thrills  of  excitement  run 
occasionally  down  the  spine  of  Le  Verdon  at  the 
thought  of  what  the  future  may  hold  in  store.  The 
change  would  be  so  complete — a  metamorphosis, 
compared  with  which  that  of  the  caterpillar  and 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  151 

the  butterfly  dwindles.  Le  Verdon  looks  aghast 
at  the  picture  of  its  own  greatness. 

Imagine  a  village  of  one  street,  one  cafe,  one  bar — 
a  village  whose  inhabitants  are  mostly  so  destitute 
that  at  times  they  are  scarcely  able  to  buy  the 
necessities  of  life,  whose  recreation  is  gossip  and 
whose  only  means  of  liveUhood  is  the  precarious 
one  of  fishing — a  village  surrounded  by  marsh, 
battered  by  the  violent  seas  which  are  frequent  at 
the  river  mouth,  scorched  by  sun  in  summer,  flooded 
by  the  high  tides  of  autumn  and  spring,  deluged  by 
rain  in  winter — imagine  the  prospect  to  such  a 
village  of  the  prosperity  which  trading  brings. 
The  Mayor,  worthy  citizen  enough  in  other  respects, 
pulls  every  string  at  his  command  (few  and  feeble 
though  they  be)  to  bustle  the  Bordeaux  authorities 
into  action ;  while  they,  doubtless,  receive  his 
persistent  communications,  headed  grandiosely  with 
the  full  title  of  "  Ze  Verdon-sur-Mer,  arrondissement 
Lesparre,  canton  Saint  Vivien,  ddpartement  de  la 
Oironde,'^  and  smile  indulgently  at  his  fussiness. 
The  Town  Council  swell  themselves  into  imaginary 
importance  ;  every  member  of  the  community  throws 
in  his  weight  in  support  ...  It  is  a  great  thing  to 
have  a  Future  .  .  . 

For  the  present,  however,  Le  Verdon  remains  as 
it  has  been  for  a  century.  A  few  wealthy  folk 
from  the  vineyards  have  discovered  the  charm  of 
its  remoteness  and  have  built  villas  near-by,  but 
these  are  rarely  occupied,  and  of  no  account  to  the 
villagers  who  continue  to  be  born,  Hve,  love,  quarrel, 
and  die  just  as  they  did  before  the  villas  were  thought 
of.  If  they  do  sometimes  regard  them,  it  is  only  with 
a  kind  of  angry  contempt  for  people  who  can  waste 
so  much  space  which  others  are  sorely  lacking.  It 
is  not  an  easy  job  to  rear  a  family  in  two  rooms,  in 
which  it  is  impossible  to  stand  upright.  So  Le 
Verdon  goes  its  way,  and  lets  the  villas  go  theirs. 


152  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Le  Verdon's  way  lies  either  across  the  marshes 
to  the  river  bay,  in  which  the  fishing  boats  are 
moored,  and  thence  by  the  uneasy  Gironde  to  the 
sea  ;  or  else  along  the  main  street  to  the  high-titled 
Cafe  de  la  Renaissance,  where  the  fisherman's 
favourite  wine  awaits  him  and  his  irritating  tally 
is  chalked  up  on  the  doorpost.  Here  he  may  pass 
the  evening  as  he  wishes,  with  but  one  restriction — 
for  woebetide  him  if  he  in  any  way  tarnishes  the 
spotless  cleanliness  of  the  place.  The  Cafe  de  la 
Renaissance  is  the  cleanest  hostelry  in  France — 
the  very  tiles  on  the  floor  are  poHshed  daily — and 
Madame  Veuve  Roget  has  an  eagle  eye  for  offenders. 
Her  patrons  may  get  drunk  with  impunity  and  go 
home  to  beat  their  wives — that  is  a  domestic  affair 
with  which  she  has  no  concern  ;  they  may  occasionally 
forget  to  pay  their  score  and  be  let  off  with  a  repri- 
mand— but  no  man  repeats  the  offence  of  dirtying 
the  floor  or  the  chairs  with  boots  or  clothes.  What- 
ever their  wives  may  say,  Madame  Roget  holds 
the  whip  hand  with  the  men — the  other  bar  is 
villainous,  and  only  to  be  visited  when  one  is 
inexorably  determined  on  a  bad  head  in  the  morning 
— so  that  Madame  usually  gets  her  way,  and  the 
Cafe  de  la  Renaissance,  at  the  end  of  the  evening,  is 
far  more  unimpeachable  than  the  period  its  title 
commemorates. 

The  Cafe  is  the  centre,  physical  and  social,  of 
Le  Verdon — ^the  only  place  any  sensible  man  can 
visit.  Sometimes,  however,  he  brings  his  wife  with 
him — on  Sunday  evenings,  when  the  room  is  crowded 
with  dancing  couples  jigging  their  heavy  bodies 
over  the  floor  to  the  accompaniment  of  an  accordian. 
Madame  Roget,  as  master — or  mistress  ? — of  the 
ceremonies,  looks  on  benignly  and  dispenses  refresh- 
ments— her  severity  is  relaxed  on  Sunday  in  view 
of  the  general  happiness — ^in  view,  also,  of  the  fact 
that  the  other  bar,  which  at  one  time  set  up  dances 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  153 

in  competition,  has  been  forced  to  abandon  them 
(on  the  last  attempt  not  a  single  couple  turned  up). 
She  looks  on  as  a  conqueror  and,  I  have  heard, 
secretly  helps  the  rascally  proprietor  of  the  rival 
bar  occasionally  to  obtain  some  of  the  small  luxuries 
of  existence.  She  is  one  of  the  few  inhabitants  of 
Le  Verdon  who  could  afford  such  kindness. 

She  is,  therefore,  one  of  the  least  concerned  with 
Le  Verdon' s  future.  I  put  it  to  her :  "  But  it  will 
make  a  great  difference  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed.  "  I  shall  go  out  of  business. 
I  do  not  want  a  town  hotel — ^it  gets  so  dirty." 

"  Le  Verdon  will  all  be  dirty  then." 

"  Well,  I  shall  leave  Le  Verdon.  My  poor 
husband  was  lighthouse-keeper  at  the  Pointe 
yonder — ^I  could  always  retire  to  a  Uttle  cottage 
near-by." 

"  But  the  men  of  Le  Verdon  would  miss  you," 
interposed  Helen. 

Madame  regarded  her  scornfully. 

"  The  men,"  she  said,  "  don't  talk  to  me  about 
a  man  missing  anyone  for  more  than  a  week ! 
The  first  time  they  are  tipsy  they  won't  be  slow  to 
tell  how  thankful  they  are  that  I  and  my  clean 
habits  have  gone.  Besides,  they  will  not  be  the 
same  men.  These  fellows  think  that  Le  Verdon's 
prosperity  will  mean  their  prosperity  too.  I'm 
not  such  a  fool — these  men  will  only  be  grovelHng 
to  new  masters,  or  have  been  pushed  out  elsewhere, 
or  have  died  through  having  to  do  some  real  work." 

"  At  least  they  would  miss  the  Sunday  evening 
dances,"  I  suggested. 

"  With  a  cinema  here  ?  Never  !  I  know  what 
this  place  will  be  if  it  becomes  rich — ^it'll  be  full  of 
mean  men  with  no  spirit." 

"  A  curious  development  for  fishermen,"  remarked 
Helen. 

*'  These  are  not  fishermen ;  they  only  play  at  it. 


154  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

That  is  why  they  are  poor,  that  is  why  they  are 
always  looMng  to  someone  else  to  make  them  rich. 
Le  Verdon  might  as  well  remain  as  it  is." 

As  may  be  imagined  from  this,  Madame  was 
more  respected  than  loved  in  the  ambitious  village  ; 
the  wine  of  the  Medoc  had  not  turned  to  water  in 
her  veins.  If  she  had  had  the  power,  she  would 
have  made  Le  Verdon  prosperous  without  waiting 
for  Bordeaux's  assistance  ;  but  so  few  men  Hke  work. 


It  was,  as  she  had  told  me,  at  the  Pointe  de  Grave, 
the  northern  extremity  of  the  great  triangle  where 
the  Gironde  joins  the  sea,  that  Madame  Roget's 
husband  had  been  keeper  of  the  Ughthouse.  A 
position  of  some  responsibihty,  for  the  white-built 
Nouveau  Phare  is  an  important  landmark  to  navi- 
gators— more  important  than  the  ancient  Tour  de 
Cordouan,  which  we  had  already  seen  from 
Soulac,  standing  several  miles  out.  The  manner 
in  which  he  met  his  death  I  heard  from  a  pilot, 
one  of  the  few  permanent  inhabitants  of  the 
windy  point. 

"  A  good  man  was  Roget,"  he  told  me.  "  It 
was  a  sad  thing  for  us  when  he  was  killed — a  sad 
thing  for  France,  too,  if  only  she  had  known  it. 

"  As  lighthouse-keeper,  he  was  naturally  friendly 
with  ships,  you  know. 

"  Somewhere  about  May  of  '17,  just  after  the 
submarine  warfare  had  been  intensified,  Roget  went 
one  afternoon  on  board  a  steamer  which  had  received 
orders  to  stop  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  .  .  .  bad 
tide,  I  believe.  There  was  no  question  of  his  being 
wanted  at  the  lighthouse  for  a  few  hours — although 
of  course,  it  was  never  Hghted  during  the  war — so 
he  rowed  across  to  see  his  friends  on  board — ^he 
had  known  Captain  Bidon  for  years  ;  I  am  not 
certain  that  the  two  weren't  at  school  together 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  165 

.  .  .  You  see,  I  know  the  full  story  because  I  was 
there  at  the  time. 

"  We  had  a  good  afternoon  with  Bidon  who  was 
a  ready  talker  at  all  times  and  had  had  an  exciting 
trip  from  South  America.  Just  as  Roget  said: 
'  Well,  I  must  be  off  now ;  there  may  be  some 
messages,'  a  gun  fired. 

"  We  didn't  take  much  notice  of  the  first  shot,, 
because  they  were  always  practising  at  the  fort 
here.  But  after  two  or  three  shots  a  second  gun 
joined  in. 

"  *  Hope  they  don't  mistake  your  launch  for  a 
submarine,'  laughed  Bidon,  as  we  came  on  deck. 

"  Roget  smiled  back,  and  then  the  smile  faded  .  .  . 
like  the  sun  going  behind  a  cloud.  He  pointed 
with  his  finger. 

"  The  guns  were  firing  like  mad  now  .  .  .  and  at 
something  real.  No  submarine  had  ever  come  so 
close  to  shore.  .  .  . 

"  Suddenly,  a  row  of  bubbles  appeared  on  the 
water,  near  the  ship. 

"  Bidon  threw  up  his  hands  and  shouted  a  warn- 
ing. Roget  seemed  fascinated  by  them — stood 
staring  as  they  came  nearer  and  nearer.  Bidon 
pulled  him  away,  but  it  was  too  late. 

"  A  terrific  explosion  .  .  .  the  ship  heeled  over 
.  .  .  and  when  the  water  subsided  Roget  was  lying 
on  the  deck,  trying  to  rise. 

"  '  I  can't  get  up,'  he  moaned.  '  I  must  go  to 
the  Hghthouse.     The  man  I  left  there  .  .  .' 

"  Then  he  fainted.  It  was  evident  that  the  ship 
was  sinking  .  .  .  his  launch  had  been  blown  to 
atoms.  ...  So  we  lowered  a  boat  and  tried  to  put 
him  into  it.  It  was  difficult,  because  the  crew  was 
excited  and  Bidon,  too,  was  injured. 

"  Roget' s  legs  had  been  blown  off  •  .  .  haK-way 
to  land  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"  '  Let's  come  for  a  walk,'  he  said,  '  we've  just 


156  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

got  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  soup.  I  feel  like 
a  quiet  stroll.' 

'•  Mon  Dieu,  you  should  have  seen  us  ! — ^we  were 
crying  with  fright  already,  and  Roget's  words 
made  us  worse.  .  .  . 

" '  What  is  the  matter  ? '  he  asked  gently. 
*  Don't  you  want  to  come  ?  If  not,  we  will  sit  in 
the  cafe  here,  and  have  a  glass.  Only  decide, 
because  the  soup  will  be  ready  soon.' 

"  We  rowed  hard,  and  Roget  fell  into  a  kind  of 
stupor.  Then  he  leant  up  on  his  elbow  and  com- 
menced to  shout  '  Let  go  of  my  legs  ! '  and  swore 
that  we  were  trying  to  drag  him  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  river.  He  would  not  be  soothed :  but  when 
Bidon  showed  him  his  injured  arm,  Roget  grew 
quiet  again  ...  I  think  it  was  a  mistake  to  show 
him.  .  .  . 

"  '  I  remember  now,'  said  Roget.  '  I  was  a  fool 
to  talk  of  going  for  a  walk.' 

"  He  squirmed  himself  into  a  more  or  less  com- 
fortable position,  and  lay  groaning. 

"  '  Wm  you  tell  her  ?  '  he  said. 

"  A  boat  which  had  put  out  to  meet  us  came 
alongside.  Roget  took  no  notice,  although  it  was 
a  friend  who  brought  it.  We  were  towed  for  the 
rest  of  the  distance. 

"  A  few  metres  from  the  shore  Roget  broke  into 
a  laugh.  '  To  think  I  wanted  to  walk  ! '  Then  he 
was  quiet. 

"  When  we  came  into  the  harbour  some  prepara- 
tions had  been  made  for  our  comfort.  Bidon  bent 
over  Roget.  '  Come,  old  friend,'  he  said,  '  we  are 
going  to  make  you  comfortable.' 

"  Roget  stared  at  him,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  '  Just  rouse  yourself  a  minute,'  said  Bidon. 

"  A  military  doctor  bustled  up.  '  What  is  the 
use  of  talking  to  him  ?  '  he  said  brusquely  to  Bidon, 
and  covered  Roget's  face  with  a  handkerchief. 


WINE  WATER  AND  SAND  157 

"  He  was  a  good  man  was  Roget,  but  the  Pointe 
de  Grave  is  small  and  France  is  very  big.  Perhaps 
people  never  even  heard  of  him  ...  a  good 
man.  .  .  ." 

VI 

The  Pointe  de  Grave  has,  however,  seen  history 
of  which  France,  big  as  she  is,  has  heard  and 
applauded.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  in  1777, 
it  was  from  here  that  Lafayette,  the  chivalrous 
young  nobleman  who  was  willing  to  risk  his  all  for 
Liberty,  looked  the  last  on  his  native  country 
before  setting  sail  for  the  American  War  of  Indepen- 
dence, and  here  that  he  landed  again  when  the 
French  Revolution  claimed  his  courage  some  years 
later.  Almost  as  if  to  return  the  compliment,  it 
was  at  the  Pointe  that  the  first  American  troops 
set  foot  in  Europe  in  1916,  and  a  monument  to  their 
solemn  memory  is  now  in  course  of  erection. 

The  unfinished  breakwaters  which  jut  in  many 
directions  from  the  tree-clothed  nose  of  the  Pointe 
have  seen,  too,  their  share  of  tragedy.  At  all  times, 
owing  to  the  configuration  of  the  land,  the  mouth 
of  the  Gironde  is  turbulent,  and  often  the  enormous 
breakers  of  Biscay  make  confusion  worse  con- 
founded so  that  those  who  work  on  the  breakwaters 
do  so  in  peril  of  their  lives.  The  last  of  an  appalling 
series  of  disasters  to  these  unsung  heroes  was  in 
1914,  when  a  party  of  French  soldiers  engaged  in 
constructing  another  rampe  were,  everyone  of 
them,  hurled  to  death  by  the  seas.  Since  then  the 
breakwater  has  remained  deserted  :  but  it  is  crowded 
with  the  evidence  of  their  devotion  and  courage. 


XIV 

THE  FASHION   OF  ROYAN 

ROYAN,  on  the  northern  bank  of  the  Gironde  opposite 
the  Pointe  de  Grave,  is  one  of  the  most  fashionable 
watering  places  in  France,  a  summer  resort  of 
Riviera  shopkeepers.  The  season  was  not  yet  in 
full  swing  when  we  crossed  to  it  in  a  ramshackle 
motor  boat,  but  the  town  was  rapidly  filHng  with 
men  just  a  little  too  spick  and  span  in  their  open 
shirts  to  be  really  comfortable  and  women  a  trifle 
too  Tuiderclad  to  be  entirely  wholesome. 

Tents  were  springing  up  on  the  beach  and  for 
entertainment  we  watched  fashionable  bathing — M. 
Bax's  performance  at  Soulac  paled  in  comparison. 
It  was  so  very  mincing  and  refined  and  deUcate — 
so  very  lacking  in  zest  and  heartiness  and  earnest- 
ness and  all  that  makes  anything  worth  doing. 
But  it  is  the  fashion  and  must  be  followed. 

"  Rather  sad  when  one  comes  to  that,"  I  said  to 
Helen,  pointing  out  a  fragrant  flower  of  young  man- 
hood dehcately  clad  in  perfectly  fitting  costume, 
and  languidly  advancing  over  the  sand. 

Helen  nodded.     "  Fool,"  she  answered  tersely. 

"  But  I  suppose  he  has  his  uses." 

''  Such  as  ?  " 

"  A  warning  to  others." 

"  Is  he  worth  even  that  ?  " 

"  '  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  God  thinks  twice  before 
damning  a  man  of  that  quality.'  Possibly  he  has 
his  good  points." 


THE  FASHION  OF  ROYAN  159 

*'  Well  covered  from  the  elements  though,"  re- 
torted Helen.  "  If  they  met  a  breeze  they  might 
blow  away." 

He  was  the  sort  of  young  man  very  popular  at 
Royan.  His  face  expressed  little  beyond  amiable 
boredom,  his  conversation  (for  later  we  were  com- 
pelled to  overhear  it)  nothing  beyond  platitudes. 
One  felt  about  him  that 

"  His  coat  was  brushed,  his  face  was  washed, 
His  shoes  were  clean  and  neat ; 
And  this  was  odd,  because,  you  know. 
He  hadn't  any  feet." 

He  hadn't  any  feet  that  were  of  use  to  him :  no 
solid  base  to  stand  upon.  He  was  a  pre-war  "  knut," 
defying  English  imitation :  his  species  still  survives 
in  France,  and,  of  course,  congregates  in  such  places 
as  Royan.  It  is  eloquent  of  the  tolerance  of  French- 
men that  this  type  is  still  uncomplainingly  suffered, 
though  you  must  remember,  at  the  same  time,  that, 
for  all  his  individualism,  a  type  is  what  the  French- 
man loves  best. 

Compare  the  effects  of  the  war  on  this  bathing 
knut  and  on  Olga  of  Aries,  whom  we  still  held  dear. 
He  had  probably  fought  and  suffered :  she  too  had 
suffered — as  greatly  and  with  less  reason  than  he. 
But  whereas  he,  with  his  grown-up  freedom,  had 
recovered  so  completely  as  to  bear  no  sign  of  what 
he  had  gone  through,  she  was  condemned  to  a  life 
that  might  well  convert  her  to  the  theory  of  eternal 
punishment.  He  was  rich,  could  forget  war's  hurt 
(and  was  probably  busily  doing  so  at  this  moment) ; 
she,  pennfless,  had  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  busi- 
ness inside  four  stone  walls.  And  perhaps  he  had 
not  even  suffered.  .  .  . 

We  dismissed  the  knut  from  our  minds  and  sent 
a  little  remembrance  to  Olga.     At  the  back  of  our 


160  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

thoughts,  perhaps,  was  a  wish  to  make  a  peace 
offering  to  all  children,  whose  accusations,  were 
not  the  cases  so  readily  settled  out  of  coiu*t,  might 
prove  damning  to  our  self-respect. 

You  know  the  kind  of  man  whose  voice,  even 
when  it  is  not  raised  above  normal  pitch,  dominates 
a  room  so  that  no  one  else  can  carry  on  a  coherent 
conversation :  that  is  the  man  Royan  needs.  It  is 
oppressively  subdued  in  its  respectability,  toned 
to  a  pitch  at  which  scandal  is  the  only  conversation 
audible. 

"  But  you  know,"  said  one  tent  on  the  beach  to 
her  neighbour,  "  you  know  what  was  said  of  her 
last  season  ?  " 

"  No  ?  " — ^The  second  tent  quite  perceptibly 
pricked  her  ears. 

"  Well,  of  course,  one  can  never  be  certain  what's 
true  and  what  isn't,  but  several  people  have  told  me 
that  she  .  .  ." 

The  loud  voiced  man  would  blow  all  this  sort  of 
nauseous  rubbish  away.  It  couldn't  exist  when  he 
was  in  Royan.     I  wish  he  would  go  there. 

"  These  socks  of  mine  were  perfectly  ridicuously 
cheap,  you  know."  The  pale  youth  wafted  the 
amber  cigarette  holder  from  his  mouth,  and  dis- 
played a  length  of  sky-blue  sock.  "  My  hosier 
tells  me  that  next  season  they  will  be  wearing  ..." 

Where  is  that  loud-voiced  man  ?  Perhaps  he 
has  gone  back  to  the  sea  from  which  he  roars  in  the 
winter.  His  voice  then  is  dominating  enough  ! — 
but  the  Httle  dragon-flies  opening  and  closing  their 
pretty  coloured  wings  and  the  big  bluebottles 
crawling  over  the  garbage  are  all  hibernating  in 
their  warm  holes  out  of  his  reach.  That  is  the 
curse  of  being  rich — ^you  can  always  escape  the  man 
with  the  loud  voice. 

Royan  did  not  receive  us  with  open  arms  :  we 
were  so  obviously  out  of  place.     If  we  sat  down  on  a 


THE  FASHION  OF  ROYAN  161 

seat  its  other  occupants  "  moved  up  one,"  if  we 
walked  we  were  given  a  wide  berth,  everywhere 
we  were  looked  at  askance. 

We  were  rather  proud  of  it. 

We  went  to  the  station  to  put  our  packs  into  the 
cloak-room  while  we  looked  for  a  lodging  in  which 
to  spend  the  night. 

A  wasp-waisted  man  in  a  tight-fitting  ochre  and 
black  uniform  and  peaked  cap — so  immaculate 
that  he  might  just  have  stepped  out  of  a  bandbox — 
approached  suavely. 

"  You  are  looking  for  a  hotel,  sir,"  he  said  in 
English.  "  The  Hotel  de  la  Plage  is  the  best  in 
Royan — next  to  the  beach — terrace  overlooking 
the  sea — every  comfort — all " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I  am  not  looking  for  a  hotel." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  lunch  there,  sir. 
Excellent  lunch — table  d'hote, — a  la  carte — best 
wines.  .  .  ." 

"  No  thanks,"  I  replied,  turning  my  back  on  him, 

"  This,  sir,  is  a  view  of  the  hotel — terrace  over 
the  sea — next  to  the " 

"  Look  here,"  I  asked  exasperated.  *'  Do  I  look 
as  if  I  should  live  in  the  best  hotel  in  Royan  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  idiotically. 
I  noticed  he  was  wearing  side-whiskers  and  that 
annoyed  me  still  further. 

"  M'sieu  is  American." 

"  And  you  think  every  American  a  millionaire  ?  " 

He  shrugged  again.  "It  is  the  best  hotel — " 
he  re-commenced.     "  M'sieu  would  perhaps  see " 

My  pride  was  pricked.  He  thought  us  worthy 
of  gracing  "  the  best  hotel  in  Roy  an."  Then  I 
grew  furious. 

*'  I  am  not  American  and  I  wish  you  would  go 
away,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  You  would  perhaps  like  the  picture  of  the " 

*'  No.     Go  away  !  " 


162  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  The  bus  is  at  the  station  for  your  luggage." 

Words  failed  me.  I  gave  him  a  sou.  He  faded 
rapidly. 

Cheerlessly  I  looked  at  Helen.  We  saw  a  porter 
lounging  against  a  wall. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  asked  him,  "  where  does  the  next 
train  go  to  ?  " 

He  appeared  a  little  startled.  I  repeated  the 
question. 

"  Farceur  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  But  I  am  serious — ^perfectly  serious.  We  want 
to  go  there." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  understand,  man  ?  Wherever  the 
next  train  goes  to." 

"  Pons  ?  " 

We  left  him.  The  booking-office  had  just  opened 
with  a  click. 


XV 

NIGHT-BIEDS 


From  yellow  sand  to  ripening  corn.  Beyond  Royan 
the  sands  disappear  in  a  ripple  of  wheat  over  the 
rich  landscape.  Before  we  had  time  to  appreciate 
the  change,  the  Dungeon  Tower  and  steep  ramparts 
of  Pons  were  abreast  of  us. 

How  is  it  that  no  one  has  celebrated  Pons  ? 
It  is  as  quiet  and  undisturbed  as  if  there  were  no 
feverish  world  of  tourists  all  round.  A  few  visitors 
from  Royan  drop  in  casually  during  the  season, 
look  at  the  river  until  the  next  train  is  ready  to  take 
them  back,  and  leave  without  knowing  the  surprises 
the  town  has  to  offer.  For  surprises  are  sprung 
on  you  at  every  turn — but  the  biggest  of  all  is 
that  a  town  so  rich  in  picturesqueness  of  every 
kind  can  remain  unhonoured  and  unsung.  It  is  a 
revelation  in  the  way  of  the  world. 

At  Pons  you  may  talk  intimately  with  every 
century  from  the  twelfth  to  the  present — most 
intimately  of  all,  perhaps,  with  the  eighteenth  in 
the  formal  gardens  of  box  hedges  and  quaintly  cut 
yews  which  face  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  This  is  the 
former  chiteau  built  on  arches  over  the  rock, 
and  you  may  easily  block  out  the  jarring  official 
posters  with  greenery.  Tall  lines  of  poplars  hide 
the  railway  station  below  the  walls  at  your  side : 
there  is  no  sound  or  sunlight  beneath  the  heavy 
curtain  of  trees  above  you  :  there  is  everything  to 


164  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

seduce  you  into  a  long  day-dream.  You  may 
walk  a  few  yards  to  the  ramparts  and  look  over  the 
smiling  golden  valley  and  the  neat  market  gardens 
below ;  you  may  turn  away  from  the  chateau 
towards  the  Place  de  la  Republique  and  see  a 
shallow  pond  with  two  white  swans ;  you  may  look 
again  between  the  giant  yew  trees  down  the  path 
and  past  four  moss-covered  stone  seats,  to  the  foun- 
tain out  of  which  bubbles  a  thin  jet  of  water  which 
runs  from  its  basin  past  a  Romanesque  chapel  to 
the  walls — and  wherever  you  look  there  is  nothing 
that  will  seem  to  you  an  anachronism,  nothing  that 
does  not  intensify  the  eighteenth  century  atmos- 
phere. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  be  wearing  a  white  wig  and 
picture  hat  and  little  silver  buckled  shoes  with  red 
heels,"  exclaimed  Helen. 

Like  a  Watteau  shepherdess,"  I  replied.  "  Do 
I  happen  to  be  the  gallant  or  the  sheep  ?  " 

"  The  goat,"  said  Helen. 

Walk  along  the  streets  of  Pons  and  the  century 
changes.  You  are  in  the  coaching  days  with  a 
French  Pickwick  prominent  in  the  scene,  a  Pick- 
wick who  is  not  of  the  West  at  all  but  of  the  exu- 
berant Rhone  Valley. 

That  is  it — ^Pons  is  a  mild  return  to  the  Midi. 
What  it  is  that  makes  it  so — whether  it  is  the  cool 
heavily-treed  squares,  or  the  red  and  green  pin- 
nacles of  the  roofs  like  the  spike  on  a  Pickelhaube, 
or  the  sundials  on  the  white  painted  chimneys — 
whether,  in  short,  it  is  the  assumption  of  the  in- 
habitants that  life  will  be  a  hot  sunny  affair,  to  be 
got  through  as  much  in  the  shade  as  possible,  I 
do  not  Imow.  Madame  Mayou  and  her  buxom 
daughters  were  too  occupied  to  tell  me. 

liese  kept  a  Httle  hotel,  patronised  chiefly  by 
commercial  travellers — ^though  it  might  puzzle  one 
to  know  what  trade  was  carried  on  in  this  place 


NIGHT-BIRDS  165 

which  is  half  town  and  half  village.  They  were 
travellers  chiefly  in  such  commodities  as  are  neces- 
sary to  every  household,  and  are  sold  in  minute 
quantities,  and  they  seemed  to  despise  Pons  as  a 
town  of  no  account. 

"  One  comes,  one  goes,  one  comes  again,"  said 
the  most  talkative  among  them.  "  Only  le  bon 
Dieu  and  the  managers  know  why.  One  never 
does  any  business — fifty  francs  worth,  perhaps, 
but,  nom  de  nom,  that  won't  keep  one  fat  for  long, 
hein  ?  " 

Fifty  francs  worth,  certainly,  would  not  have 
maintained  his  present  girth  for  a  week-end. 

"  What  is  your  line  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  Metal  polish,"  he  rephed.  "  It's  my  belief 
that  it  all  finds  its  way  into  this  hotel  in  the  end." 

Very  probably  he  was  right.  The  copper  pots 
in  the  kitchen  were  mirrors  of  induistry,  the  candle- 
sticks shone  with  their  own  lustre — one  was  afraid 
of  touching  the  brass  door  handles  for  fear  of  leav- 
ing a  mark,  so  one  always  left  the  door  ajar  and 
opened  and  closed  it  with  one's  foot. 

It  was  Jeanne  who  was  responsible — Jeanne 
with  the  muscles  of  a  horse  and  the  face  of  a  dumpy 
squat  angel,  who,  on  finding  herself  locked  out  one 
night  (she  ought  not  to  have  been  away  from  home 
so  late)  broke  a  garden  seat  in  front  of  the  hotel, 
and  extricating  a  piece  of  iron  from  its  wreckage, 
burst  the  lock  of  the  side  door  and  finally  rated  her 
mother  for  going  to  sleep  in  the  kitchen. 

"  What  else  to  do  ?  "  she  asked  laughingly  after- 
wards. "  You  would  not  have  had  me  sleep  in 
the  stables.  Besides,  I  had  to  clean  the  boots. 
No,  it  was  mother's  fault  entirely.  .  .  ." 

No  work  was  too  hard  for  Jeanne.  First  up  in 
the  morning,  she  pumped  water  for  half  an  hour, 
then  washed  the  hall  and  cleaned  out  the  dining- 
room.    By   that   time   those   "  commercials "    who 


166  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

were  leaving  by  the  early  train  were  clamouring 
for  breakfast ;  she  took  it  to  each  of  them  with  a 
quiet  smile  and  a  cheerful  greeting  and  then 
attended  to  her  mother,  whom  age  was  beginning 
to  weaken.  The  morning  was  occupied  in  cleaning 
rooms,  while  her  sister.  Marguerite,  prepared  the 
lunch.  During  the  afternoon  both  of  them  sewed 
— ^it  was  wonderful,  they  said,  how  much  needed 
darning — then  while  Marguerite  prepared  the  dinner, 
Jeanne  poUshed,  drew  water,  set  out  the  rooms  for 
the  night,  dressed  and  in  due  course  waited  at  table. 
When  the  crockery  had  been  washed  up,  Jeanne 
tossed  her  dark  hair  and  was  free  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day  ! 

"  Don't  you  ever  get  tired  of  it  ?  "  asked  Helen 
astounded. 

"  What  is  the  use  ?  "  parried  Jeanne,  "  the  work 
has  still  to  be  done." 

"  But  in  the  summer  for  instance  ?  " 

"  It  is  hot,  yes  !  One  sweats  " — ^with  an  ex- 
pressive downward  movement  of  the  hands — "  but 
then  in  the  winter  it  keeps  one  warm." 

"  You  wouldn't  get  English  girls  to  do  it,"  re- 
flected Helen. 

"  EngHsh  girls  are  not  French  peasants,"  said 
Jeanne.  "We  are  peasants,  you  know,  Madame, 
and  have  to  work  or  we  starve.  We  are  not  bom 
rich  like  EngUsh  girls." 

"  But  suppose  you  fell  ill  ? "  I  asked.  She 
shrugged. 

"  There  is  the  hospital." 

"  And  after  that  ?  " 

"  Ce  qu^on  veuV  What  a  world  of  contrast 
between  the  fataHsm  of  that  "  ce  qu^on  veut "  of 
Jeanne's  and  Shakespeare's  careless  "  What  you 
will!" 

"  One  has  no  time  to  think,"  she  continued, 
"  there  are  always  les  voyageurs  to  look  after.    Listen. 


NIGHT-BIRDS  167 

There  is  one  calling  now,"  and  she  bounced  up- 
stairs as  though  she  were  fresh  from  a  long  night's 
sleep. 

We  strolled  out  into  the  moonlight,  Helen  and  I 
— a  clear  yellow  light,  with  heavy  stars  and  a  fresh 
breeze  after  the  stifling  heat  of  the  day.  At  the 
lower  end  of  the  town  a  fete  was  in  progress  round 
an  old  Romanesque  church :  the  faint  sounds  of  a 
band  drifted  up  to  us,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
firework  tried  feebly  to  drown  the  moon.  For  the 
rest,  the  houses  were  a-twinkle  with  domestic 
lights :  Pons  was  absorbed  in  its  own  enjoyment : 
the  outside  world — well,  is  there  really  such  a  thing  ? 

n 

"  This  is  the  time  for  walking,"  exclaimed  Helen. 
She  is  addicted  to  these  sudden  inspirations. 

To  the  intense  surprise  of  the  Mayou  household 
and  the  gathered  concourse  of  commercial  travel- 
lers, we  packed  our  traps  and  set  off.  Their  only 
explanation  of  our  conduct  was  that  we  were  in- 
tensely dissatisfied  with  something — but  with  what 
they  could  not,  for  the  Hfe  of  them,  discover.  And 
as  for  us — how  could  we  explain  to  rational  beings 
one  of  Helen's  "  ideas  "  ? 

We  came  out  on  to  the  road  opposite  the  hotel. 

"  Right  or  left  ?  "  I  asked, 

"  Right." 

"  You  want  to  go  back  to  Royan  ?  " 

"  Left,  I  meant." 

So  to  the  left  we  went,  and  soon  the  quiet  town  of 
Pons  was  behind  us.  A  rocket  from  the  fair  bade 
us  adieu,  and  almost  the  last  human  sound  we  heard 
was  the  animated  discussion  of  the  Mayou  family 
and  their  guests,  of  which  we  doubtless  formed  the 
subject.     Then  the  night  swallowed  us  up. 

The  long  yellow  road,  slowly  rising  to  the  crest 
of  a  hill,  seemed  to  be  swept  by  gusts  of  darkness 


168  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

where  the  shadows  of  the  trees  fell  across  it.  The 
whole  landscape  was  a  mist  of  gold  and  blue  where 
corn  and  tree  mingled,  and  a  sighing  wind,  so  sHght 
as  to  make  scarcely  a  movement  in  the  boughs,  rose 
and  fell  like  the  distant  chords  of  an  organ  in  Nature's 
cathedral,  interrupted  occasionally  by  the  harsh 
croak  of  a  bull  frog  or  the  eerie  hoot  of  an  owl. 
Soft  buzzy  things  floated  across  the  night,  brushing 
lightly  against  one's  face  or  rushing  up  in  swarms 
for  an  inspection  of  one's  clothing.  Never  did 
they  make  any  attempt  at  attack,  for  creatures  of 
the  night  are  gentle  and  friendly,  seeking  company 
in  their  wanderings. 

We  had  walked  about  two  kilometres  on  the 
road  to  Saintes  when  we  first  saw  the  scarecrow 
of  a  man  in  front  of  us.  His  tatters  fluttering  gaily 
in  the  breeze,  he  was  pushing  a  dilapidated  mail- 
cart  loaded  with  the  oddest  assortment  of  clothing 
and  household  utensils  imaginable — ^rags  picked  up 
by  the  roadside,  old  pots,  bits  of  metal,  wood,  a 
broken  casserole,  two  lady's  hats  and  "  under- 
clothing ditto,"  some  scraps  of  fur,  the  battered 
frameworks  of  several  umbrellas,  and  a  doll's 
head.  His  own  remnants  of  boots  were  hanging 
round  his  neck  and  he  was  walking  barefoot. 

"  A  fine  night,"  I  exclaimed  as  we  drew  level 
with  him. 

"  For  those  that  have  nothing  to  carry,"  he 
replied.     "  Here,  push  this  a  bit." 

Nothing  loth,  I  took  the  greasy  handle  from  him, 
and  pushed  the  unsavoury  collection.  The  tramp, 
meanwhile,  went  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  sluiced 
his  face  and  hands  in  a  stagnant  pool.  Later  he 
rejoined  us. 

"  Heavy  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  Suppose  you'll  want  something  for  it,"  he 
grumbled. 


NIGHT-BIRDS  169 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Well,  it's  plain  enough,  isn't  it  ?  Nobody  but 
a  fool  does  work  for  nothing.  And  pushing  that's 
work." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  a  fool  then,"  I  replied 
innocently. 

"  Thought  so,"  he  muttered,  and  strode  on  in 
silence. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Out  of  work,"  I  replied  shortly,  dropping  into 
his  style  of  conversation.  "  Suppose  you  tell  me 
who  you  are  ?  " 

"  Thought  you'd  want  to  know.  Foreigner, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  English." 

He  grunted  again  and  relapsed  into  silence. 
Helen  laid  a  trembling  hand  in  mine. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  who  you  are  ?  "  I 
said,  after  another  kilometre. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ?  " 

"  Companionship." 

He  laughed  at  the  idea  of  it,  and  did  not  reply. 

"  Here,  take  hold  of  this  contraption,"  I  ex- 
claimed, releasing  my  grasp  of  the  mailcart. 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  Your  beastly  surliness." 

"  You're  impertinent  for  your  age,"  he  answered 
menacingly. 

"  I've  fallen  in  such  pleasant  company,"  I  re- 
torted. 

Luckily  the  mailcart  threatened  to  run  away 
down  a  slope  and  needed  all  his  attention  for  the 
moment :  he  was  a  bad-tempered  devil. 

"  Look  here,  don't  be  a  fool,"  I  said.  "  We're 
going  all  in  the  same  direction  and  might  as  well 
travel  together." 

I  felt  instinctively  the  sort  of  reply  that  was  form- 
ing in  his  loutish  mind. 


170  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Please  don't  forget  Madame,"  I  said. 

In  a  minute  his  demeanour  changed.  He  pulled 
of!  his  ragged  cap. 

"  Madame  will  pardon  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

What  followed  makes  me  doubt  whether  it  is 
justifiable  to  leave  any  one,  however  idle  or  criminal 
his  mind,  to  follow  merely  his  own  devices  without 
an  attempt  at  reaching  the  essential  "  human " 
part  of  his  character.  From  the  moment  I  drew 
attention  to  the  presence  of  Helen,  the  tramp 
might  have  been  a  different  man  as  far  as  his 
manners  were  concerned.  In  his  topics  of  conver- 
sation, admittedly,  he  was  deplorable,  but  there  was 
a  feeling  of  uneasy  shame  about  him  which  was  all 
to  his  credit.     He  grew  affable. 

The  talk  ran  largely  on  petty  theft,  with  digres- 
sions into  burglary,  rick-firing,  blackmail,  and 
sabotage  on  railways — a  rather  aristocratic  form 
of  HveHhood  this  last,  at  which  our  friend  professed 
himself  an  adept.  It  required  at  least  two  accom- 
plices, he  told  us,  but  with  luck  the  booty  was 
sometimes  enormous.  Of  course,  he  explained 
shamefacedly,  it  was  only  in  extremities  that  one 
resorted  to  such  measures. 

"  Suppose  you  get  caught  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  One  goes  to  jail,"  he  answered.  "  Hard  labour 
is  unpleasant  but  it  does  not  last  for  ever." 

"  Is  it  worth  it  ?  "  Helen  was  well  to  the  fore  in 
this  conversation. 

"  The  big  jobs  ?  No.  The  smaU  ones  pay  better, 
taking  into  account  the  risks." 

The  moon  was  sinking,  and  in  the  East  was  that 
faint  relieving  of  the  indigo  sky  which  precedes 
dawn.  The  tramp  took  us  into  a  field  where  he 
camouflaged  his  mailcart  and  its  load  with  brush 
wood. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  drawing  us  together  con- 
fidentially,   "  you're  both  young  and  inexperienced 


NIGHT-BIRDS  171 

but  I  can  see  you're  keen  to  learn.  Take  a  tip  or 
two  from  me.  Keep  your  knife  sharp — spend  your 
time  on  it  till  it's  like  a  razor  ;  a  blunt  knife  never 
cuts  anything.  Keep  your  hands  supple — ^practise 
sometimes  on  each  other.  Never  sell  your  stuff 
less  than  twenty  kilometres  from  where  you  got  it. 
Always  have  a  revolver  to  scare  old  women  with, 
but  never  load  it — that's  a  fool's  trick.  There's 
a  lot  more  you'll  pick  up  yourselves,  but  those 
things  I've  told  you  are  useful.  I'm  lying  low  to- 
day.    Au  revoir." 

He  gripped  our  hands  ;  and  as  the  first  flush  of  day 
tinted  the  tree  tops  he  dropped  into  a  ditch  to  sleep. 

Helen  and  I  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Did  you  take  in  everything  he  said  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Everything,"  she  replied,  "  in  case  we  are 
unemployed  again." 

"  We  need  never  be  that.  Here's  aU  Saintes 
opening  its  pockets  to  us." 

"  I  would  rather  it  opened  a  bedroom  door," 
yawned  Helen. 

in 

Saintes  is  a  town  which,  proud  of  its  Roman 
remains,  tries  to  take  itself  seriously,  forgetful  of 
the  fact  that  nearly  every  street  ends  in  a  meadow. 
With  a  quiet  and  thriving  life  of  its  own,  it  seems 
ambitious  to  become  a  tourist  centre — it  is  as  if 
Pons  suddenly  awoke  to  the  fact  that  it  had  attrac- 
tions to  offer  and  began  to  "  push "  them.  The 
result  is  disappointing :  as  yet,  at  least,  the 
mechanism  of  the  push  is  rather  too  apparent,  and 
Saintes,  which  is  really  a  jolly,  unfinished  little  place,  is 
making  efforts  which  will  only  undermine  its 
attractive  personality. 

Stick  to  the  marketing  streets  of  the  town  if  you 
wish  to  find  out  what  Saintes  really  is — the  streets 
where  you  can  buy  cherries  and  cheese  and  soap  and 


172  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

live  ducks  and  take  them  all  home  in  a  big  wicker 
basket  to  the  kitchen.  As  these  streets  are  not 
far  from  the  river,  they  are  comparatively  airy  to 
stroll  in,  in  spite  of  the  grilling  heat  of  the  town — 
in  fact,  the  male  section  of  the  inhabitants  seems  to 
spend  most  of  its  time,  pipe  in  mouth,  on  the  ad- 
jacent doorsteps  looking  at  the  frantic  endeavours 
of  the  fowls  and  ducks  to  escape  from  their  narrow 
cages. 

This  July  morning,  when  the  heat  prevented  us 
from  sleeping  so  that  we  had  wandered  irritably 
into  the  market  quarter,  the  birds  were  making 
strenuous  efforts  after  liberty.  It  was  exceptionally 
hot,  and  the  men  on  the  doorsteps  watched  with  lazy 
interest  their  ruffled  feathers  and  loud-voiced 
protests  while  the  vendors  took  advantage  of  a 
temporary  patch  of  shade  to  temper  business  with 
comfort.  Then  the  old  lady,  who  is  primarily  respon- 
sible for  the  events  of  this  story,  hove  in  sight. 

At  a  guess  you  would  have  put  her  age  at  about 
seventy,  but  from  the  evident  weight  of  her  house- 
hold basket,  brimming  over  with  shining  purple 
cherries,  she  must  have  been  younger.  She  briskly 
negotiated  for  a  duck,  too — a  fine  white  bird  which 
appeared  to  take  quite  an  intelligent  interest  in 
the  proceedings.  The  bargaining  being  concluded, 
she  tied  its  feet  together  and  hobbled  away  with  her 
new  purchase  swinging  head  downwards  from  her 
formerly  free  hand. 

The  intelUgence  of  the  duck  was  now  devoted  to 
another  object — ^how  to  recover  its  upright  position. 
It  struggled  with  wings  and  feet — ^but  that  was  not 
the  first  time  the  old  woman  had  carried  a  bird 
home.  It  craned  an  anxious  neck  to  take  stock  of 
things — but  the  flounces  of  her  black  skirt  flapped 
into  its  eyes  and  drove  it  downwards  again.  It 
opened  its  mouth,  first  in  silence  and  then  to  emit  a 
plaintive   quack — but   the   two   ribbons    from   her 


NIGHT-BIRDS  173 

white  lace  cap — it  was  flat  and  square,  like  a  "  mor- 
tarboard " — ^were  blown  round  her  ears  by  a  slight 
breeze,  so  that  they  deafened  her  to  the  duck's 
complaint.     The  old  woman  had  it  every  way. 

But  that  very  cap — the  pride  of  its  owner  and  a 
marvel  of  workmanship — was  her  undoing.  As  she 
turned  the  corner  on  to  the  riverside  quay,  a  little 
whirlwind  lifted  it  perpendicularly  from  her  head. 
A  gasp,  a  windmill  of  arms  and  skirts,  a  purple 
shower  of  cherries,  a  flutter  of  feathers — it  was  all 
over  in  a  second.  The  cap  sailed  upwards  like  a 
white  yacht,  the  duck  lay  on  the  ground,  cherries 
rolled  over  the  cobbles  into  the  gutter,  the  old  woman 
stood  confounded  in  the  midst  of  the  wreckage  not 
knowing  which  way  to  turn  first. 

"  Quick,  mother,  or  you'll  lose  it,"  cried  a  passing 
youth,  pointing  to  the  cap  and  keeping  his  eyes  on 
the  cherries. 

"  What  to  do  now  ?  "  wailed  the  old  woman. 

"  Run  after  it,"  cried  the  youth. 

The  men  on  the  doorsteps  chuckled  to  each  other 
and  kept  silence. 

The  wind  had  now  dropped  the  cap  some  few 
yards  away.  The  old  woman  darted  after  it,  while 
Helen,  who  had  just  come  on  the  scene,  drove  the 
disappointed  youth  up  the  street  and  collected 
the  cherries.  For  myself,  I  sided  with  the  men  on 
the  doorsteps. 

Thanks  and  the  adjustment  of  the  cap  occupied 
some  minutes.  The  old  woman  took  up  her  basket, 
stooped  to  catch  hold  of  the 

It  was  not  there. 

Only  the  piece  of  dirty  cord  which  had  secured  its 
feet  marked  the  spot  on  which  the  duck  had  lain. 

With  a  cry  the  old  woman  seized  the  string. 
•   "  Which   of   you   has   got  it  ?  "    she     screamed. 
*'  Lazy    vagabonds    that   you    are,    which    of    you 
has  robbed  me  ?  " 


174  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  None  of  us,  mother,"  replied  one  of  the  men. 
"It's  only  a  duck,  anyway." 

"  Yes,  and  a  duck's  a  duck,  you  thieves." 

The  men  laughed.  "  Come  and  search  us,"  said 
another,  good-humouredly. 

"  I  wouldn't  put  my  hands  on  you,"  retorted 
the  old  woman. 

"  There  it  is,"  yelled  a  small  boy,  pointing  to 
the  gutter  some  distance  up  the  road.  "  We'll 
catch  him,  mother." 

Two  of  the  men  rose  in  pursuit,  but  the  old  woman 
was  in  front  of  them  both. 

The  duck,  however,  must  have  got  wind  of  im- 
pending events.  Hitherto  it  had  been  peacefully 
recovering  its  lost  dignity :  now  it  set  off  with  a 
great  waddling  and  an  extended  neck  down  the 
street. 

The  hunt  grew  :  another  man  joined  in  the  chase. 

The  duck  encountered  a  dog,  flew  at  him  and 
routed  him.  The  field  yelled  vain  encouragements 
to  the  dog. 

A  pedestrian,  coming  from  the  opposite  direction, 
tried  to  head  the  duck  off.  It  dodged  skiKully : 
he,  too,  swelled  the  hunt. 

The  duck,  becoming  scared,  made  for  an  open 
shop  door  :  the  chase,  seven  or  eight  by  this  time, 
felt  sure  now  of  their  quarry  ;  but  the  foolish  shop- 
keeper drove  it  out  again  into  the  roadway. 

A  well-meaning  woman  in  a  first  floor  window 
threw  a  bucket  of  water  over  it ;  this  had  the  effect 
of  thoroughly  frightening  it,  so  that  it  flew  on  to  the 
wall  next  the  river.  At  this  same  moment  the 
crowd  drew  level,  but  it  was  obviously  not  an 
occasion  to  attempt  any  haphazard  snatching. 
They  formed  a  wary  semi-circle  with  the  duck  in 
the  centre  :  one  of  them  tried  to  coax  it. 

Step  by  step  the  semi-circle  closed :  the  crowd 
behind  it  became  dense  and  speechless  with  excite- 


NIGHT-BIRDS  175 

ment.  The  duck's  attempt  at  liberty  was  nearly 
ended,  though  the  manner  in  which  it  shifted  its 
anxious  little  eyes  suggested  that  it,  at  least,  was 
ignorant  of  the  fact. 

The  youth  who  had  been  baulked  of  his  cherries 
had  his  revenge.  Quickly  approaching  through 
the  crowd,  he  pushed  the  man  who  was  nearest  the 
duck.  There  was  a  roar  of  anger,  a  loud  quacking, 
a  fury  of  feathers,  and  a  row  of  disappointed  heads 
on  the  parapet  watched  the  duck  aUght  in  the  water 
below. 

"  A  boat !  "  cried  someone. 

There  was  a  rush  for  a  small  boat  moored  to 
some  steps  near-by ;  but  the  duck  was  swimming 
with  the  current  and  had  made  good  progress  by  the 
time  a  boat  put  off. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  woman,  thoroughly  exhausted 
and  despondent,  sat  on  the  kerb  to  regain  her 
breath  and  to  listen  to  the  latest  bulletins  from  the 
scene  of  the  race. 

"  They're  going  well,  mother.  You'U  have  your 
duck  back  soon.  ..." 

"  Mon  DieUy  but  they  are  hot.  ..." 
"  Watch  them,  they're  gaining.  ..." 
"  But  see,  what's  happened  .  .  .   ?  " 
"  They've  got  their  oar  in  the  weeds.  .  .  ." 
"  They've    stopped    .     .    .    they    can't    get    it 
out.  .  .  ." 

"  That's  better.     They're  off  again.  .  .  ." 

"  Where's  the  duck  ?  .  .  ." 

"  There  he  is  .  .  .  right  down  there.  .  .  ." 

"  What,  near  the  bend  of  the  river  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Yes,  just  reaching  it.  .  .  ." 

"  I  say,  they're  a  long  time  behind.  .  .  ." 

"  But  they  won't  be  long  now.  ..." 

"  There  he  goes  .  .  .  round  the  bend.  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  see  him." 

"  He's  gone  .  .  .  they're  just  reaching  it.  .  .  ." 


178  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  There  they  go.  .  .  ." 

The  old  woman  waited  and  waited. 

There  is  no  conclusion  to  this  story.  And  I  had 
intended  to  write  something  really  informative 
about  Saintes. 

IV 

As  we  sat  in  an  indifferent  little  cafe  in  the  Cours 
Reverseaux,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a  figure 
edged  up  behind  us. 

"  I  am  moving  on  to-night,"  it  said. 
"  Coming  ?  " 

Our  surly  night  companion  needed  no  persuasion 
to  have  a  glass  with  us  :  he  had  been  already  lick- 
ing his  chops  when  he  first  spied  us,  and  foresaw  an 
assuaging  of  thirst  in  his  very  invitation. 

"  Where  are  you  going  this  time  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Rochefort." 

*'  Why  do  you  want  us  to  come  with  you  ?  " 

He  shrugged.  "  Perhaps  the  road  does  not  seem 
so  long,"  he  repUed. 

"  I  expect  not — ^when  you  can  find  some  fool 
or  other  to  push  your  confounded  mailcart  for  you." 

He  grinned  sheepishly,  then  winked.  "  I  haven't 
got  it  any  more." 

"  So  that  it's  just  us  three  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  how  long  do  you  propose  to  take  over  the 
journey  ?  " 

"  Three  nights,  perhaps." 

I  looked  at  Helen  and  dropped  into  English. 
"  Well  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Might  as  well  be  that  as  nothing,"  she  answered. 
Helen  had  not  been  favourably  impressed  by  our 
former  experience  of  his  company. 

"  We'll  come  with  you  to  Rochefort  but  there's 
one  thing  I  want  to  explain  first.  We're  putting 
ourselves  in  a  deUcate  position.  .  .  ." 


NIGHT-BIRDS  177 

The  tramp's  face  lighted  up.  "  So  you've  pro- 
fited by  my  advice  ?  " 

"  Be  quiet.  I  want  you  to  understand  we're 
not  thieves — ^we've  never  been  able  to  get  up 
sufficient  pluck  even  to  pick  a  pocket." 

*'  Perhaps  the  right  occasion  has  never  come," 
he  interposed. 

"  So  that  you  see  if  you  should  happen  to  be 
caught  while  you're  with  us,  we  should  find  our- 
selves in  a  very  awkward  pickle." 

The  tramp  laid  a  finger  cutely  on  his  nose.  "  Never 
fear,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  give  away  pals — ^if  they 
don't  give  me  away." 

"  It's  a  bargain  ?  " 

*'  Done.     Let's  drink  to  it." 

He  ordered  more  wine,  drank  jovially  and  left 
me  to  pay  for  it. 

We  met  Marcel — ^we  discovered  that  to  be  the 
most  frequently  adopted  of  his  several  names — on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  at  midnight  and  took 
once  more  to  the  open  road.  Etienne,  Rene, 
Marcus — our  various  companions  of  the  past  few 
months,  were  very  close  to  me  as  we  definitely  added 
Marcel  to  their  number.  But  perhaps  none  of 
them  would  have  approved  the  strange  "  no-split- 
ting "  contract  that  had  been  made  between  us — 
and  I  myself  wondered  exactly  what  I  should  do 
if  confronted  by  a  pert  gendarme  with  levelled 
revolver.  You  may  sometimes  joke  about  a 
sword,  especially  if  it  is  big  and  heavy,  but  a 
revolver  is  an  uncomfortably  humourless  sort  of 
weapon. 

Marcel  was  in  high  spirits  and  opened  conversa- 
tion by  apologising  for  not  paying  for  the  after- 
noon's drinks. 

*'I  ought  to  have  done  it,"  he  said,  "but  the 
fact  of  the  matter  was,  I  had  buried  my  money- 
box in  a  field  and  didn't  want  the  whole  world 


178  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

to  know  the  whereabouts  of  my  coffre-fort.    One 
has  to  use  discretion." 

"  I  suppose  you  left  it  there  till  your  next  visit 
to  Saintes  ?  "  said  Helen. 

He  grinned  and  slapped  his  ragged  pocket. 
"  Would  either  or  both  of  you  like  to  get  it  from 
me  ? "  he  repHed.  "  I  seldom  go  to  the  same 
town  twice.  There  are  plenty  places  up  and  down 
France,  and  I  know  them  all — ^but  it's  a  tiring  life, 
and  I've  had  ten  years  of  it." 

"  What  made  you  take  to  it  at  first  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  A  woman.  Like  the  rest  of  them,  she  couldn't 
take  a  joke." 

"  Oh  ?  "  cried  Helen,  eager  for  the  defence  of 
her  sex. 

"  You  might  as  well  try  to  play  with  a  hyena." 

"  What  did  she  do,  anyhow  ?  "  I  pursued. 

"  Laid  in  the  gutter  and  screamed — ^it  was  all 
she  could  do,"  continued  Marcel.  "  I  gave  them  a 
run  for  their  money,  though,  before  they  caught  me 
.  .  .  that's  what  started  me  on  this  life.  One  soon 
accumulates  experience." 

We  were  resting  at  the  moment  in  a  dense  oak 
wood,  through  whose  trees  the  moon  shone  in  tiny 
rustUng  patches.  Suddenly  an  owl  hooted.  We  all 
three  jumped  to  our  feet. 

"  — and  nerves,"  exclaimed  Marcel  irritably. 
"  What  made  you  set  me  thinking  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  stop  outside  Tailleburg,"  he  said 
when  we  resumed  our  walk,  "  there's  something  I 
want  to  find  out  about  that  place.  I  may  be  there 
for  a  day  or  two  but  I  will  let  you  know  when  and 
where  to  meet  me." 

"  But  you  said  you  were  proposing  to  take  only 
three  days  to  Rochefort  ?  " 

"  You  may  leave  me  if  you  want  to,"  he  repUed. 
"  But  don't  forget  our  bond  stands.  If  not,  you 
know,  there  are  plenty  of  people  with  Joiives." 


NIGHT-BIRDS  179 

"  Which  they  may  keep  to  themselves,"  said 
Helen  hmriedly.     "  We'll  wait  for  you  all  right." 

Marcel  grunted.  "  Don't  want  to  see  either  of 
you  in  the  town.  What  I  want  to  do  is  .  .  .  dity 
done,  what's  that  ?  " 

A  gHmmer  of  light  behind  us  showed  our  sil- 
houettes unpleasantly  plainly  on  the  road.  Marcel 
motioned  us  to  keep  still,  then  cautiously  looked 
round. 

"  A  motor,"  he  said  softly.  "  Into  the  hedge 
with  you." 

We  all  three  jumped  down  the  bank  and  lay 
low.  The  motor  passed  quickly  along  the  road,  its 
headlights  jerking  beams  of  haphazard  day  into  the 
forest.     When  it  was  out  of  sight  Marcel  rose. 

"  It  is  always  well  to  be  careful,"  he  remarked. 
"  We  may  go  on  now.  Tailleburg  is  only  two  kilo- 
metres away :  in  a  short  while  I  shall  leave  you. 
Don't  be  fools  in  the  time  we  are  here,  and  keep  your 
stuff  packed  ready  to  move.  I  ask  you  both  again 
— don't  be  fools." 

He  was  so  earnest  in  his  entreaty  that  his  voice 
still  sounded  in  our  ears  when  we  had  entered  the 
little  town  and  were  settling  for  a  few  hours'  sleep. 


On  the  second  day  at  Tailleburg,  the  scene  of  an 
English  defeat  by  the  French  in  1242,  we  wandered 
over  the  corn-covered  district,  through  close  Uttle 
woods  and  over  great  fields  of  waist-high  wheat,  and 
went  to  bed  thoroughly  tired.  Our  room  was  the  best 
the  little  country  hotel  had  to  offer — ^low-ceiling'd 
and  with  small  windows,  stuffy  at  the  best  of  times 
and  rendered  more  suffocating  in  this  grilHng  sum- 
mer by  being  filled  almost  to  bursting  point  with 
faded  rickety  upholstered  furniture.  It  was  dis- 
tinctly a  room  to  have  avoided,  but  hospitable  as 
were  the  village  folk,  they  had  no  other  to  offer  us. 


180  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

And  I  could  not  persuade  Helen  to  sleep  in  the 
fields.  She  said  she  felt  thunder  in  the  air.  She 
is  a  wise  wife.  We  should  have  been  drenched  to 
the  skin. 

We  saw  nothing  of  Marcel,  but  talked  almost 
incessantly  of  him.  Helen  enlarged  on  our  risks 
in  being  in  his  company  at  all ;  I  pointed  out  that 
we  should,  in  case  of  necessity,  be  able  to  give  a 
reasonable  explanation — one  that  would  satisfy 
even  a  French  gendarme — and  that  Marcel's  bark 
was,  I  suspected,  a  good  deal  worse  than  his  bite. 
I  knew  something  of  the  EngUsh  tramping  frater- 
nity, had  found  many  of  them  distinctly  companion- 
able chaps  beneath  their  unwashed  hide,  and  was 
able  to  place  Marcel,  with  fair  accuracy,  as  one 
to  whom  petty  theft  and  an  occasional  burglary 
was  the  normal  limit  of  crime.  A  criminal  of 
desperate  character  does  not  boast  of  his  accom- 
plishments— he  is  usually  too  much  of  an  artist 
for  that. 

With  the  approach  of  fatigue  conversation 
dropped,  and  it  was  a  very  weary  couple  who 
betook  themselves  to  the  hideous  room.  Helen 
threw  wide  the  window — as  narrowly  wide  as  it 
would  go — and  hurled  most  of  the  clothes  from  the 
bed.  Going  to  the  door,  she  swung  it  violently 
backwards  and  forwards,  leaving  it  ajar. 

"  Now  I  feel  I  can  breathe,"  she  exclaimed. 

We  blew  out  the  candle  and  lay  for  some  time 
as  in  an  oven. 

"  Asleep  ?  "  murmured  Helen. 

"  I   should   have   been   if   you   hadn't   spoken," 
I  retorted. 

"  Sorry,"  she  replied  and  turned  over. 

Soon  after,  the  persistent  singing  of  a  mosquito 
round  my  head  drove  me  to  fury. 

*'  Damn  the  little  beast,"  I  snorted,  making 
violent  grabs  at  the  darkness. 


NIGHT-BIRDS  181 

"  Do  be  quiet,"  exclaimed  Helen.  "  You  woke 
me  up." 

"  You're  lucky  to  have  been  asleep  at  all,"  I 
said  savagely. 

We  lit  the  candle,  caught  the  mosquito  and  re- 
freshed  ourselves  with  a  breath  of  torpid  air  from 
the  window.  Then,  luckily,  we  both  dropped  off 
to  sleep. 

It  must  have  been  a  couple  of  hours  later — ^the 
moon  had  just  risen — ^when  Helen  shook  me. 

"  I  think  there's  someone  about,"  she  whispered. 
"  Listen." 

The  creeper  below  our  window  rustled.  The 
"  someone,"  whoever  he  might  be,  was  evidently 
counting  on  a  houseful  of  heavy  sleepers. 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence  there  came  the  soft 
opening  of  a  door  and  a  muffled  footfall.  Through 
our  door,  which  we  had  left  ajar,  we  heard  a  deep 
creak  on  the  stairs.     A  long  quiet  followed. 

Very  slowly,  above  the  stair  tops,  appeared  a 
crouched  head.  Something  about  the  head  made 
me  laugh  to  myself. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  whispered  Helen 
anxiously,  as  if  she  thought  I  had  gone  into  hysterics. 

"  Marcel,"  I  chuckled.  "  Keep  quiet  for  Heaven's 
sake,  or  you'll  spoil  the  joke." 

The  man  had  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  now, 
and  was  cautiously  looking  round  him.  As  I 
suspected,  he  caught  sight  of  the  open  window 
through  our  door,  and  thinking  it  an  easy  "  click," 
made  for  us.  We  closed  our  eyes  as  if  asleep  until 
he  was  inside  the  room.  Helen  pretended  to  grunt 
uneasily. 

Marcel  turned  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  "  froze." 
In  a  few  minutes  he  began  to  move  again. 

"  Oh,  go  away,"  I  murmured,  as  if  talking  in  my 
sleep. 

Of  course  I  could  not  see  what  happened,  but  there 


182  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

was  a  noise  as  of  a  chair  falling.  I  "  woke  up  " 
and  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed.  I  saw  nothing — except 
Marcel's  foot  sticking  clumsily  beyond  the  lower 
comer  of  the  bedpost.  The  foot  looked  painfully 
nervous. 

I  pretended  to  hum  and  ha  about  having  heard  a 
noise,  then  turned  over  on  the  side  where  I  could 
see  the  foot,  and  "  went  to  sleep  "  again.  It  must 
have  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  Marcel  moved 
— ^I  never  imagined  him  other  than  cautious,  but 
this  patience  in  a  cramped  position  surprised  me. 
At  last  the  foot  was  carefully  withdrawn  and  his 
ragged  body  slowly  appeared  at  the  end  of  the 
bed.  He  looked  at  us  narrowly  but  detected 
nothing.  When,  however,  he  made  for  our  knap- 
sacks, knowing  his  particular  theories  of  meum  and 
tuum,  I  thought  it  wise  to  open  conversation. 

"  Good  evening.  Marcel,"  I  said  cheerfully.  "  Or 
should  it  be  good  morning  ?  " 

Marcel    "  froze "    again :    but   I   was    "  asleep." 
Helen  spoiled  the  game  with  a  chuckle. 

"  Silence  or  I  fire,"  he  whispered  savagely,  wheel- 
ing round  and  pointing  a  revolver  at  us. 

"  Do  you  think  we  are  old  women,"  I  whispered 
back.     "  Marcel,  you  silly  fool,  put  that  toy  away." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked  ;  he  was  trembling. 

"  Two  night-birds,"  replied  Helen. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  some  more  stuff  for  us  to 
push  ?  "  I  enquired. 

"  You  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Nom  de  Dieu,  you  gave 
me  a  fright." 

"  Sorry  I  can't  return  the  compliment,"  I  re- 
torted. "  But,  look  here,  this  alters  matters  very 
materially,  you  know.  Perhaps  you  have  not 
heard  of  the  English  sajnng  that  there's  honour 
among  thieves.  If  you  try  to  burgle  a  friend  it's 
only  tit-for-tat  that  the  friend  should  tell  what  he 
knows  about  you,  eh  ?  " 


NIGHT-BIRDS  183 

"  You  dare  not,"  he  answered  in  a  voice  in  which 
fear  was  uppermost. 

"  Men  with  knives,  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked  jocularly. 

"  They  are  real,"  he  said. 

"  As  real  as  your  revolver,  with  knives  as  sharp 
as  your  wits." 

"  Besides,  you  don't  know  anything  about  me." 

"  Not  much,  perhaps,  but  enough  to  make  a 
very  pretty  story  of  rick-firing,  blackmail  and  sabot- 
age on  railways — ^to  say  nothing  of  burglary  and 
pocket-picking. ' ' 

''  Then  there  is  only  one  way.  ..."  He  took 
a  step  towards  the  bed. 

"  You  want  me  to  raise  the  house  ?  " 

Marcel  stopped  still  and  scratched  his  head. 
"  I've  never  been  in  such  a  mess,"  he  ejaculated 
ruefully. 

"  And  you  may  thank  your  lucky  stars  you  won't 
be  taken  advantage  of,"  I  repHed.  "  We've  got 
the  whip  hand,  and  we'll  show  you  how  friends 
ought  to  behave  to  one  another." 

"  I  swear  it  was  a  mistake,"  he  said. 

*'  I  don't  believe  even  you  would  have  been  such 
a  fool  on  purpose,"  I  continued.  "  Now,  get  out 
of  that  window — quick — and  I  won't  say  anything 
to  anybody  in  Tailleburg." 

"  Where  then  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  In  England,"  I  said. 

He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  cocked  his  leg  over 
the  window  sill. 

*'  We  don't  want  to  see  you  again." 

"  You  won't,"  he  replied,  and  scrambled  down 
into  the  night. 

VI 

Two   mornings   afterwards  we  entered  Rochefort. 
The  first  sight  that  greeted  us  was  Marcel  between 


184  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

a  couple  of  gendarmes.  His  wink  as  we  passed  was 
scarcely  perceptible. 

A  friendly  car  gave  us  a  lift  as  we  passed  the 
Arsenal ;  we  were  hot  and  tired  and  must  have 
moved  pity  even  in  the  steel  of  a  gun. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  the  motorist. 

"  Anywhere,'*  we  answered. 

"  La  RocheUe  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  drove  like  the  fiend  over  the  flat  intervening 
country  and  in  an  hour  we  were  within  the  gates  of 
France's  Dream  City. 


XVT 

JEAN-FRAN901S 


The  heart  of  La  Rochelle  is  the  harbour,  and  en- 
closed within  its  towered  entrance  is  a  very  riot 
of  colour  and  rich  life.  The  rest  of  the  town  is 
merely  an  amplification  and  an  explanation  of 
the  harbour — ^when  you  know  what  it  has  to  show 
you,  you  know  La  Rochelle — the  town  of  dan- 
gerous dreaming.  Throughout  its  chequered  history 
it  has  dreamed  dangerously  either  of  religion  or 
of  the  sea,  and  though  its  harbour  is  now  of  small 
importance,  La  Rochelle  has  not  lived  in  vain. 
Liberty  owes  much  to  its  sons — and  their  strain 
has  not  yet  died  out. 

You  see  it  every  day  round  the  harbour  when  the 
moth-like  fishing-boats,  their  coloured  sails  aglow 
in  the  morning  sun,  come  back  from  their  nights 
at  sea.  Stem,  rough  men  and  women — ^folk  with 
whom  an  impatient  word  means  a  blow,  but  who 
will  smile  like  children  if  only  you  will  humour 
them — disembark  with  their  silver  loads  of  fish  and 
spend  the  day  lounging  on  the  quay-side  or  clean- 
ing their  boats,  silent  usually,  or  indulging  in  rough 
horseplay,  never  carelessly  Hght-hearted,  always 
with  the  distant  horizon  before  their  eyes. 

Or  if  on  some  voyages  the  women  are  left  at  home, 
in  the  morning  mother  and  baby  come  down  to 
meet  daddy  as  he  passes  the  two  old  towers  guard- 
ing the  harbour  mouth,  and  putting  his  helm  hard 


186  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

to  port,  swings  into  the  quay  and  makes  fast. 
There  is  no  time  lost  then  ;  baby,  Hght  as  a  feather, 
is  swung  into  his  arms,  and  mother  is  released  for 
an  hour  or  two  from  her  responsibility — ^for  the 
uncouth  fishernum  is  the  merriest,  kindest,  tenderest 
daddy  in  the  world  for  baby,  who  as  an  embryo 
fisher  must  early  become  accustomed  to  the  smell 
of  ships  and  the  sea.  Nearly  every  day  daddy 
plays  with  the  child  where  that  smell  is  strongest : 
until  one  day  Biscay  flicks  its  tail,  and  one  more 
ship  is  casually  posted  as  "  not  returned  from 
sea." 

This  had  happened  to  httle  Jean-Fran9ois  only 
a  short  time  before  he  came  into  our  lives. 

*'  Daddy  says  .  .  ."  he  commenced,  and  then  he 
stopped.  It  was  so  strange,  as  yet,  to  think  of 
Daddy  in  the  past  tense.  Then  he  would  toddle 
from  the  Debit  de  Vin,  held  by  his  aunt,  the  good 
widow  Bobinec,  across  the  wide  street  to  the  har- 
bour and  sit  intently  watching  the  varied  tasks  of 
the  fishermen.  Perhaps  he  was  wondering  why, 
when  all  these  boats  had  come  back.  Daddy's 
had  not. 

That  was  a  question  puzzling  alike  to  sailors  and 
divines.  Gustave  Esperendieu,  as  his  name  tells 
you,  was  of  sturdy  Huguenot  descent — "  You  see  ?  " 
murmur  the  CathoHcs — though  his  father  had  lapsed 
from  the  Reformed  Faith  and  had  brought  up  his 
son  in  the  Catholic  Church — "  Just  the  reason," 
sigh  the  Protestants.  He  was  an  excellent  master 
of  his  vessel,  fearless  and  trustworthy — ^so  fisher- 
folk  remain  silent,  having  no  concern  with  his  soul, 
conscious  only  that  they  have  lost  a  staunch  com- 
rade.    Perhaps  theirs  is  the  biggest  loss  of  all. 

Jean-Fran9ois,  at  least,  can  imagine  no  bigger. 
Mother  having  already  faded  from  his  short  memory. 
Daddy  occupied  it  all.  Aunt  Bobinec,  though  she 
occasionally   spoiled   him,    had,  at   other   times,  a 


JEAN-FRANgOIS  187 

short  way  with  naughty  children — she  was  em- 
phatically a  person  whose  mental  barometer  must 
be  carefully  watched.  She  wore,  too,  a  spotless 
white  cap,  full  of  elaborate  lace,  with  two  white 
ribbons  hanging  down  almost  to  her  waist — ^these 
ribbons  were  a  source  of  endless  temptation  to 
Jean-Frangois,  but  woebetide  him  if  he  as  much  as 
approached  them  for  sound  punishment  from  her 
strong  arm — ^which  made  him  howl  again — ^was  the 
invariable  reward.  She  was  a  nasty  stuck-up  beast 
at  such  times,  was  Aunt  Bobinec,  but  that  mattered 
little  when  Jean-Fran9ois  could  run  away  to  sym- 
pathetic Daddy.     There  was  no  Daddy  now.  .  .  . 

Jean-Fran9ois  Esperendieu,  six  though  he  was, 
and  proud  of  his  age,  could  not  sometimes  restrain 
a  tear  at  his  own  loneliness.  Why  had  Daddy 
gone  out  that  night  .  .  .  ? 

*'  What's  the  matter  with  you,  my  little  man  ?  " 
I  asked,  finding  him  lachrymose  on  the  quay. 

Two  big  liquid  eyes  looked  up  into  mine ;  but 
there  was  no  answer. 

"  Sais  pas,^^  he  murmured  at  last. 

"  That's  a  fine  answer  !  "  I  sat  down  on  a  seat 
and  took  him  on  my  knee,  but  the  grubby  little 
urchin  wriggled  off  and  sat  at  my  side.  Then  he 
wiped  his  nose  on  his  sleeve. 

"  Come,  you  feel  better  now,"  I  exclaimed  cheer- 
fully. He  looked  at  me  with  eyes  full  of  reproach, 
as  if  he  did  not  appreciate  this  spirit  of  flippancy. 

"  I  think  I  know  what  he'd  like,"  said  Helen. 
Jean-Frangois  turned  to  her  in  expectation. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  I  asked.  Jean-Fran9ois'  eye- 
brows began  to  rise  and  the  suspicion  of  a  smile 
to  appear  in  his  wan  little  face. 

"  Ah  !  "  replied  Helen  mysteriously.  There  was 
no  holding  him  back.  The  lady  meant  to  give 
him  something  good,  but  what  could  it  be  ?  Jean- 
Fran9ois  was  itching  to  know. 


188  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  "  continued  Helen.  But  he 
could  not. 

"  An  ice."  His  eyes  were  sparkling  now,  and 
as  Helen  returned  from  an  ice-cream  stall  with  a 
big  wafer  in  her  hand  the  past  was  completely 
driven  out  of  Jean-Fran9ois'  mind.  Look  what 
the  lady  was  going  to  give  him  ! — he  had  never 
had  such  a  big  one  before. 

He  gloated  over  it  for  some  seconds,  spilling  a 
portion  on  his  smock  and  Hcking  it  off  again, 
regarding  the  enormous  wafer  in  his  hands  with 
incredulous  amazement.  Then  he  attacked  it, 
smearing  it  over  his  face,  coughing  with  its  cold, 
enjoying  himself  immensely. 

"  Qu'aS'tu  U  9  "  asked  a  passing  fisherman  who 
knew  the  child. 

But  Jean-Frangois  just  gurgled  out  an  incom- 
prehensible reply  and  continued  to  lick. 

The  wafer  was  nearly  finished  when  a  flutter  of 
dress,  ribbons  and  white  lace  cap  behind  startled 
him  out  of  Paradise. 

"  ^/i,  mem  Dieu,  que  mange-t-il  ?  " 

Jean-Frangois  crammed  the  remainder  of  the 
wafer  into  his  mouth  and  sUd  from  the  seat. 

"  I'm  ready.  Auntie,"  he  said  meekly. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Bobinec, 
her  worn  face  expressing  a  mock  seriousness. 

Jean-Frangois  pointed  to  Helen. 

Aunt  Bobinec  clucked  her  astonishment,  winked 
at  Helen  and  then  turned  to  the  child. 

"  Thank  the  lady,"  she  demanded. 

Jean-Frangois  remained  still  for  a  second,  then 
put  his  smeary  face  up  to  be  kissed.  "  Merci, 
M'damey''  he  whispered. 

"  When  will  you  come  and  see  me  again  ?  " 
asked  Helen. 

He  considered  her  seriously. 


JEAN-FRANgOIS  189 

**  When  you  will  buy  me  another  ice,"  he  replied, 
his  face  full  of  memories. 

But  Aunt  Bobinec  had  carried  him  away  before 
we  could  arrange  a  meeting. 

II 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  difficult  to  meet  Jean- 
Fran9ois.  You  hung  about  the  harbour,  watch- 
ing the  blue,  red,  brown,  yellow,  green — all  the 
colours,  in  short— of  the  sails  crowded  in  it,  and 
sooner  or  later  he  would  trot  serenely  over  from  the 
Debit  and  put  his  hand  into  yours.  You  knew  it 
at  once  from  the  fact  that  it  was  an  unusually 
sticky  little  hand  for  all  Aunt  Bobinec's  attention. 
"  Ah  well,"  she  used  to  say,  "  perhaps  getting 
dirty  is  the  greatest  pleasure  left  to  him,  poor 
mite."  And  then  she  would  sigh  for  her  lost 
brother  Gustave  and  wonder  what  would  be  best 
for  le  pHit.  Having  no  children  of  her  own — 
both  had  died — Jean-Fran9ois  held  her  motherly 
old  heart  with  peculiar  fierceness.  Her  entire  Ufe, 
emptied  first  of  her  children,  then  of  her  husband, 
lastly  of  her  brother,  twined  itself,  gnarled  and 
sharp-edged  as  experience  had  made  it,  round  the 
Uttle  bit  of  puzzling  and  puzzled  humanity  that  was 
her  nephew.  Yet  so  rapidly  did  her  moods  and 
his  chase  each  other  across  their  respective  tem- 
peraments that  there  seemed  scant  hope  of  their 
becoming  the  firm  friends  Widow  Bobinec  so 
ardently  desired.  If  Jean-Fran9ois  were  in  playful 
mood,  his  aunt  would  find  herself  preoccupied ; 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  she  were  disposed  to  make 
much  of  him,  he,  mistaking  it  for  teasing,  would 
retire  into  his  shell,  sulk,  and  bewail  his  loneliness. 
It  was  a  miniature  tragedy  into  which  we  strayed 
when  Aunt  Bobinec,  thinking  it  would  please  Jean- 
Fran9ois  (and  for  once  she  was  right),  invited  us  to 
lodge  in  the  tiny  bedroom  above  the  Debit  de  Vins. 


190  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Madame  can  enter  by  the  side  door,"  she  ex- 
plained, "  but  I  have  known  my  customers  all  my 
life — ^have  grown  up  with  them.  Madame  may  find 
them  rough,  but  they  take  no  advantages,  and  I 
turn  them  out  when  they  have  had  sufficient." 

From  our  window  we  looked  beyond  the  harbour 
to  the  open  sea,  and  when,  one  night,  there  was  a 
violent  storm  and  Biscay  seemed  spHt  by  immense 
sheets  of  incessant  mauve  lightning,  Veuve  Bobinec 
came  to  us  in  depression  after  the  Debit  had  closed 
its  doors. 

"  You  will  pardon  my  intruding  ?  "  she'^inquired. 

"  Of  course." 

"  You  see,  it  was  on  a  night  like  this  that  Gustave 
left  port.  Jean-Fran9ois  knows  it  and  is  terrified 
of  storms  " — ^the  child  slept  in  the  next  room — "  I 
like  to  be  near  him  at  such  times  in  case  he  calls." 

"  He  has  been  quiet  enough  so  far,"  said  Helen. 
"  If  you  are  tired  I  will  look  after  him." 

The  widow's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  It  would 
be  kind  of  Madame,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  I  had 
Madame's  way  with  Jean-Fran9ois.  She  can  make 
him  do  anything  she  likes." 

Helen  comforted  the  poor  soul  and  then  led  her 
to  her  bedroom.  Scarcely  had  she  returned  when 
a  little  wail  floated  in  from  the  next  room. 

"  Daddy  !     Where  are  you,  daddy  ?  "  it  cried. 

Helen  went  to  console  the  kiddy.  She  found  him 
sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed,  clutching  the  blanket 
with  both  hands,  and  whimpering  softly  to  himself. 
As  she  opened  the  door  he  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  Daddy !  " 

Helen  could  not  bring  herself  to  reply,  but  clasped 
him  in  her  arms,  walking  him  thus  about  the 
room. 

"  I'm  so  frightened." 

"  Nothing  will  harm  you,  mon  pHit,^  soothed 
Helen.     She  sat  on  the  bed  with  him  as  he  snuggled 


JEAN-FRANgOIS  191 

down.      Just  as  she  thought  him  asleep  he  started 
up,  nearly  throwing  himself  out  of  her  arms. 

"  Where's  my  daddy  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

Then  the  frightened  look  she  had  seen  before 
crept  into  his  eyes. 

"  Aimtie  says  I  shan't  see  him  any  more.  Is 
that  right  ?  " 

Helen  brought  him  into  our  room,  where,  by 
candle-Hght,  we  kept  him  in  some  fashion  amused  till 
the  storm  abated. 

Then  she  put  him  into  his  own  bed.  "  I  love  you," 
he  said,  kissing  her  ;  and  was  asleep  at  once. 

The  next  morning  Aunt  Bobinec  seemed  per- 
plexed. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  Some  cousins 
of  his  in  Nantes  want  Jean-Frangois  to  stay  with 
them  for  a  time.  I  should  Hke  the  child  to  go,  but 
don't  see  how  I  can  possibly  take  him.  C^est 
emh^tant,  rCest-ce  pas  ?  " 

"  Does  the  boy  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  am  loth  to  disappoint  him,  but  I 
can't  leave  the  Debit.  Business  is  not  done  like  that." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  offer  to  look  after  it  for  you," 
I  said. 

"  No,  but  we  might  take  him,"  suggested  Helen. 

But  Aimt  Bobinec  would  have  none  of  it.  ' '  Some 
friends  may  soon  be  going  to  Nantes,"  she  said, 
"  and  they  will  take  him  for  me." 

"  You  know  of  someone,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  at  the  moment.  But  I  can  keep  my  ears 
open." 

"  Look  here,"  I  said.  "  Let  Jean-Frangois  him- 
seM  decide  whether  he  shall  come  with  us  or  stay 
with  you  until  a  friend  goes  to  Nantes." 

The  widow  acquiesced  reluctantly.  But  not 
until  I  saw  him  put  his  arm  round  Helen's  neck, 
and  a  sigh  almost  of  jealousy  escape  from  Aunt 
Bobinec  did  I  reaUse  that  I  had  been  cruel. 


192  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 


III 

A  FEW  days  later,  some  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
before  the  train  for  Nantes  was  due  to  leave,  we 
stood,  a  happy  party,  upon  the  platform  of  the 
station.  The  merry  harbour  flashed  its  bright 
colours  through  the  broken  panes  of  railway  glass 
while  a  sizzling  heat  rose  from  the  metal  and  as- 
phalt within  the  dome.  We  perspired  profusely 
— ^Aunt  Bobinec's  cap,  donned  specially  for  the 
leave-taking,  threatened  to  become  limp,  and  Jean- 
Fran9ois'  collar,  very  neat  beneath  his  black  smock, 
was  already  beginning  to  wilt.  It  was  much  too 
hot  to  talk  and  only  irrepressible  youth  showed 
the  slightest  sign  of  liveliness.  As  the  minutes 
dragged  on,  even  he  quietened  and  at  last  slunk 
into  a  deserted  corner. 

We  had  gazed  at  each  other  from  beneath  moist 
brows  until  it  seemed  as  if  the  train  would  never 
arrive,  when  we  were  startled  by  a  distant  whimper. 
At  first  we  Hstened  with  indifferent  curiosity  until 
Aunt  Bobinec  suddenly  exclaimed :  "  Where's  Jean- 
Fran9ois  ?  " 

We  looked  round  in  vain  :  the  whimper  grew  into 
a  roar  of  agony.  Jean-Fran9ois,  posted  as  missing, 
danced  vehemently  round  a  fat  man  with  a  curly 
beard,  holding  something  big  and  brown  in  his  hand. 
Aunt  Bobinec  bore  down  on  him  majestically. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  ?  "  Aunt  Bobinec's 
sight  was  occasionally  at  fault. 

"  Didn't  get  it,"  howled  Jean-Fran9ois. 

"  Don't  tell  lies,  little  nephew.  How  did  you 
come  by  it  ?  " 

'' It^it  grabbed  me." 

Aunt  Bobinec  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  this. 
*'  What  in  the  world  has  the  child  got  ?  "  she  ex- 
claimed. 


JEAN-FRANgOIS  193 

*'  Let  me  rid  him  of  it,"  said  the  fat  man  in  an 
oily  voice.  He  bent  down  to  the  child  and  began 
vigorous  manipulations  with  bony  fingers.  In  a 
minute  he  was  puffing  like  a  grampus :  then,  rising, 
curled  his  beard  fiercely. 

"  Mon  DieUy  but  it  is  a  tenacious  beast." 

By  this  time  Jean-Fran9ois'  howls  were  resound- 
ing through  the  dome  of  the  station  Hke  forty 
engines  all  screaming  together. 

"  I  only  put  my  finger  in  the  basket,"  he  yelled. 

A  kindly  porter  tried  his  hand  at  removing  the 
crab ;  then  the  fat  man  had  another  bout  with  it. 
A  third  man  came  up,  and  taking  Jean-Pran^ois 
on  his  knee,  tried  by  some  mysterious  method 
to  remove  it  with  his  teeth:  it  was  quite  easy, 
he  explained,  if  only  you  got  the  right  grip. 

Suddenly,  just  as  all  three  men  were  arguing 
vociferously  with  Aunt  Bobinec  as  to  how  it  should 
be  removed,  the  little  crowd  was  scattered  by  the 
owner  of  the  intruder — a  buxom  woman  who 
dexterously  twisted  it  from  Jean-Frangois'  finger, 
leaving  him  to  suck  the  injured  part  vigorously. 

"  You  ought  to  keep  the  Hd  shut,"  remonstrated 
Aunt  Bobinec. 

"  If  you  looked  after  your  child  properly  there'd 
be  no  need  to,"  retorted  the  woman.  "The  crab 
didn't  run  after  him,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Further  discussion  was  mercifully  cut  short  by 
the  arrival  of  the  train.  The  leave-takings  were 
conducted  with  due  ceremony.  We  left  stern  Aunt 
Bobinec  wiping  her  eyes,  settled  Jean-Francois, 
who  had  been  somewhat  rueful  since  his  adven- 
ture, into  a  corner  and  prepared  for  a  tolerable 
journey.  Jean-Fran9ois,  however,  beneath  his  rue- 
fulness had  decided  otherwise. 

We  had  scarcely  left  La  Rochelle  when  he  became 
irritatingly  attracted  by  the  flies  in  the  compart- 
ment.    Had  this  been  empty,  chasing  them  might 


IW  AMONG  FRENCH  POLK 

have  been  looked  upon  as  a  comparatively  harmless 
amusement,  but  with  every  seat  occupied — and  on 
a  hot  day  travellers'  tempers  are  short — unfriendly 
giiances  were  soon  cast  at  us. 

"  Be  quiet,  dear,"  remonstrated  Helen. 

Jean-Frangois  apparently  mistook  this  for  some 
aubtle  form  of  joke,  for  he  gurgled  his  appreciation 
and  redoubled  his  efforts.  Half  a  dozen  dead  flies 
soon  littered  the  floor. 

"  If  you    don't    stop    I    shan't    give    you  any 

There  was  no  joke  about  a  remark  like  that. 
Jean-Fran9ois  subsided  into  a  corner. 

Helen  had  just  remarked  to  me,  some  time  later, 
that  he  was  really  a  very  well-behaved  child,  when 
a  window-bUnd  in  the  next  compartment  to  ours 
flapping  outside  the  train  attracted  his  attention. 
In  a  trice  he  was  standing  on  the  seat,  leaning  as 
far  out  of  the  open  window  as  he  could.  A  motherly 
cfld  soul  next  to  him  grabbed  his  legs  and  pulled 
him  down  again. 

"  What  did  she  want  to  do  that  f  or  ?  "  said  Jean- 
Pran9ois. 

"  To  stop  you  from  falUng  out,"  Helen  told  him 
severely.     "  You  mustn't  do  that  again." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  say  so." 

"  Does  she  say  so  too  ?  " — vindicating  the  motherly 
old  soul. 

She  nodded. 

"  Then  I  shall " — Jean  Frangois,  however,  was 
not  quick  enough  :  both  Helen  and  the  M.O.S.  had 
him  fast.     He  commenced  to  kick. 

"  You're  a  nasty  fat  woman,"  he  exclaimed 
to  the  M.O.S. 

Although  Helen,  in  her  calmer  moments,  argues 
against  corporal  punishment,  Jean-Frangois  will  not 
soon  forget  the  slap  he  received. 


JEAN-FRANgOIS  195 

"  A  nasty "  he  repeated,  but  got  no  further. 

He  began  to  howl. 

A  pleasant-looking  soldier  in  the  opposite  corner, 
who  having,  as  he  informed  us,  three  of  his  own 
under  six,  knew  all  about  children,  pacified  Jean- 
Fran9ois  with  strange  head-gears  made  out  of  an 
old  newspaper ;  and  after  a  time  food  reduced 
him  to  absolute  docility.  He  sat,  a  bloated  little 
figure,  gazing  abstractedly  out  of  the  window. 
While,  as  far  as  could  be  seen,  in  the  same  position, 
he  commenced  to  giggle. 

"  Look  at  that  man's  eyebrows,"  he  exclaimed. 

We  looked  in  vain  in  the  direction  in  which  he 
pointed. 

"  Oh,  do  look  how  he  moves  them  up  and 
down  !  " 

Still  we  could  see  nothing.  Jean-Fran9ois  became 
convulsed. 

"  What  a  funny  man  !  "  he  shrieked. 

The  motherly  old  soul  began  to  giggle  too,  and 
then,  severely  repressing  it,  tickled  Jean-Fran9ois' 
bare  knee  to  distract  his  attention.  The  only 
effect  of  this  was  to  make  him  turn  towards  the 
compartment,  and  pointing  a  chubby  finger  at  the 
peissenger  next  to  me,  to  peal  again  with  merri- 
ment. The  passenger,  a  nervous,  middle-aged  man 
with  rapidly  moving  eyebrows,  rose  abruptly  and 
went  into  the  corridor. 

"  You're  a  very  naughty  boy,"  I  said  sternly. 

"  But  wasn't  he  funny  I  " 

Then  curiosity  got  the  better  of  me.  "  How  could 
you  see  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  In  the  window." 

I  was  left  to  reflect  on  reflections. 

There  followed,  after  this,  another  interval  of 
blessed  peace,  broken  by  the  boy  turning  to  Helen 
and  remarking  : 

"  Are  you  really  married  ?  " 


196  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Of  course,"  said  Helen. 

"  Aunt  Bobinec  didn't  think  so." 

"  Oh  ?  " 

"  No.     I  heard  her  telling  Pierre  one  day." 

"  Well,  you  shouldn't  repeat  things  you  hear." 

"  But  she  said  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  what  she  said,  Jean- 
Fran9ois."     This  was  heroic  on  Helen's  part. 

"  How  was  she  to  know  you  were  married  ?  " 

"  This  is  my  wedding-ring."  Jean-Fran9ois 
examined  it  minutely. 

"  Anyone  could  wear  that,"  he  repHed  with  ill 
disguised  contempt. 

"  Oh  no,  they  can't." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

Rather  than  be  led  into  a  long  moral  argument 
which  would  have  left  Jean-Frangois  still  un- 
convinced, Helen  told  him  to  look  out  of  the  window. 
When  he  had  again  grown  tired  of  kiUing  flies,  he 
resumed : 

"  I  say,  when  you're  married,  do  you  have 
babies  ?  " 

Helen  nodded. 

"  Have  you  got  any  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  lots  and  lots  of  reasons." 

"  But  could  you  have  babies  if  you  wanted  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ?  " 

*'  Look  out  of  the  window,  there's  a  good  boy." 

But  Jean-Fran9ois  was  not  satisfied. 

"  Are  you  going  to  .  .  .  ?  " 

*'  I  don't  know.     Now  be  good." 

"  But  can't  you  tell  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Here  are  some  pictures  in  the  paper.  Look 
at  this  one.     It  is  .  .  ." 

But  can't  you  tell  .  .  .  ?  " 


cc 


JEAN-FRANQOIS  197 

It  was  an  actual  relief  when  Jean-Fran9ois  sud- 
denly turned  a  tragic  face  to  Helen. 

"  I  do  feel  bad,"  he  said. 

"  Go  into  the  corridor  for  a  while,"  I  suggested. 
"  I'll  come  with  you."  A  contemptuous  grunt 
was  my  only  answer. 

*'  Lie  down  on  the  seat  then,"  said  Helen. 

"  Don't  want  to." 

The  soldier  came  nobly  to  the  rescue. 

"  Here's  a  hat  you  haven't  seen  yet." 

"  Silly !  " 

The  motherly  old  soul  added  her  quota. 

"  Lean  up  against  me,  mon  enfanV^ 

There  was  a  positive  snort  of  disgust  from 
Jean-Fran9ois.  For  the  second  time  he  stood  up 
on  the  seat,  with  his  head  out  of  the  window ;  then 
sat  down  again,  green  but  relieved. 

"  How  ill  the  child  makes  me  feel,"  groaned  a 
young  woman,  putting  her  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth  and  fanning  herself  with  the  other  hand. 
"  You  ought  to  look  after  him." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Helen.  "  Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk,"  replied  the  young  woman  faintly, 
and  leant  against  the  soldier. 

Soon  there  was  a  gentle  snoring.  She  and  Jean- 
Frangois  had  both  fallen  asleep. 

I  looked  at  Helen  and  mopped  my  brow. 

"  It's  worth  it,  all  the  same,"  she  said. 

I  knew  what  she  meant. 

IV 

Jban-Fran90Is'  cousins  had  promised  to  meet  us 
at  the  station  ;  but  though  we  hunted  high  and  low 
we  remained  hke  unclaimed  luggage  in  the  big 
central  hall.  The  recognition  would,  of  course, 
have  to  be  on  their  side,  as  Jean-Frangois  remem- 
bered them  but  little  ;  so  I  hoisted  him  up  on  to  my 


198  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

shoulder  to  render  him  as  conspicuous  as  possible. 
His  only  idea  was  that  I  was  giving  him  a  "  joy 
ride." 

"  Now  let's  go  back  again,"  he  jerked  out,  as  I 
walked  him  the  entire  length  of  the  platform — and 
Nantes  is  a  fairly  long  station. 

For  reasons  of  my  own,  I  compUed. 

"  Just  once  more,"  he  pleaded. 

"  But  you're  a  heavy  boy,"  I  expostulated.  He 
grunted  incredulously. 

"  I'm  going  to  carry  you  back  to  the  central  hall, 
and  if  we  don't  meet  your  cousins  there,  we  shall 
have  to  hold  a  council  of  war." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  shall  have  to  talk  matters  over.'* 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  To  find  out  what  to  do  next.  Do  you  know 
where  your  cousins  Uve  ?  " 

Jean-Fran9ois  shook  his  head  cheerfully.  "  Give 
me  another  ride,"  he  commanded. 

I  took  him  back  into  the  hall,  where  Helen  was 
waiting  with  the  luggage,  deposited  him  on  top  of 
our  packs  and  began  to  discuss  the  situation. 

"  We  none  of  us  know  where  they  hve,"  I  said, 
"  and  Nantes  is  a  pretty  big  town  to  begin  a  house- 
to-house  search  in." 

"Why  not  look  in  a  directory?"  suggested  the 
practical  Helen. 

"  Good  for  you,"  I  replied  in  mock  seriousness. 
"We'U  look  for  one." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  interrupted 
Jean-Frangois. 

"  Seeing  where  we  can  find  your  cousins." 

"  Don't  much  want  to  find  them,"  he  answered 
casually.  He  was  enjoying  himseK  immensely 
with  my  stick. 

"  So  you  don't  want  anywhere  to  sleep  to-night  ?  " 
I  asked. 


JEAN-FRANgOIS  199 

This  aspect  of  the  question  hadn't  struck  him, 
but  after  a  short  consideration  he  grinned.  "  I 
shall  have  to  stop  with  you,"  he  said  jubilantly. 

"  But  we  haven't  got  anywhere  to  sleep  either." 

He  looked  at  us  in  amazement. 

*'  Dii  donCy^  he  exclaimed,  and  began  to  chew  over 
to  himself  this  remarkable  fact. 

Helen,  who  had  consulted  a  directory  in  a  cafe 
opposite  the  station,  came  back  wiping  her  mouth. 

"  There's  no  Dousseaux  in  the  book  at  all " 

she  began. 

"  Nice  little  cafe,  wasn't  it  ? "  I  interposed 
jealously.     She  nodded. 

*'  We  haven't  got  time  to  talk  about  that,'*  she 
answered,  giving  her  mouth  a  final  dab,  "  we've 
got  to  look  after  the  child.  Just  go  up  to  a  police- 
man and  ask  whether  he  knows  anybody  of  the 
name  of  Dousseaux." 

"  It's  a  hundred  to  one  he  doesn't,"  I  grumbled. 
But  I  went,  all  the  same.  The  policeman  stared  at 
me  as  if  I  had  asked  something  improper,  shifted 
his  revolver,  scratched  his  leg,  wiped  his  forehead 
with  his  sleeve,  took  out  a  note-book  and  eyed  me 
suspiciously. 

"  Who  is  it  you  want  ?  "  he  inquired. 

*'  Dousseaux." 

«« Of  ?  " 

*'  That's  exactly  what  I  want  to  find  out." 

*'  Then  I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you.  Ask  higher 
up." 

I  was  just  returning  to  the  station  when  he  shouted 
after  me  :  "  Not  that  way.     Higher  up,  I  said." 

"  But  I  was  just  going  .  .  ." 

"  The  other  way." 

"...  back  to  the  station.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  going  in  the  wrong  direction." 

It  was  of  no  use  continuing  the  conversation. 
I  took  off  my  hat,  and  saw  him  out  of  the  corner 


200  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

of  my  eye  shrug  his  shoulders  as  if  to  say  that  all 
the  English  he'd  ever  met  were  fools. 

He  looked  more  astonished  than  ever,  and  not  a 
little  suspicious  also,  when  the  two  of  us,  laden 
with  knapsacks  and  Jean-Fran9ois,  emerged  from 
the  station.  It  was  my  impression  that  he  pulled 
out  his  note-book  again,  or  some  sort  of  manual  of 
instructions,  and  began  to  write  laboriously  and  at 
length.     We  left  him  still  writing. 

We  inquired  of  three  more  poUcemen  after  that 
with  as  useful  results.  Jean-Fran9ois  was  getting 
tired,  my  own  temper  was  shortening.  Only  Helen 
remained  serene. 

"  I'll  ask  in  this  grocer's,"  she  said. 

"  It's  like  looking  for  a  couple  of  needles  in  a 
haystack,"  I  rephed.  "  I'll  give  those  cousins 
a  piece  of  my  mind  when  we  do  find  them." 

Helen,  however,  had  entered  the  shop  and  had  left 
me  standing  impatiently  on  the  crowded  pavement. 

I  was  gazing  abstractedly  at  some  chimney-pots 
in  the  distance  and  thinking  how  finely  their  smoky 
redness  blended  with  the  blue-greys  of  the  Cathe- 
dral near  to  them,  when  a  young  woman  came  to 
a  standstill  opposite  me  and  stared  disconcertingly 
in  my  direction.  I  became  suddenly  aware  that 
Jean-Francois  was  missing. 

"  Jean-Francois,"  I  called. 

To  my  utter  horror,  the  young  woman  broke  into 
a  joyful  smile.  "  At  last  I  have  found  you,"  she 
exclaimed,  and  seized  both  my  hands. 

The  whole  of  my  past  rose  at  a  single  leap  before 
me :  I  sorted  it  out  hurriedly  but  found  no  corner 
into  which  the  buxom  wench  could  possibly  fit. 

"  I  think  M'selle  has  made  a  mistake." 

"  But  no."  She  wouldn't  leave  go  of  my  hands, 
confound  her.  One  or  two  men  stared  as  they 
passed,  and  Helen  might  come  out  of  the  shop  at 
any  moment. 


JEAN-FRANgOIS  201 

"  May  I  ask  then  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  I  am  Suzanne  Dousseaux,  Jean-Fran9ois' 
cousin." 

If  Helen  had  remained  inside  a  little  longer  I 
should  have  kissed  Madame  Dousseaux  out  of 
sheer  gratitude.     But  she  emerged. 

"  I  think  I  have  got  on  the  tracks  of " 

"Too  late.     This  is  the  lady." 

Jean-Fran9ois  was  looking  shyly  on  at  all  this. 
Now  he  hlurted  out : 

"  Shan't  I  come  with  you  any  more  ?  " 

"  We'll  take  you  to  your  cousin's  if  she'll  let  us," 
said  Helen. 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Madame  Dousseaux  cor- 
dially. "  Though  Madame  must  not  expect  to 
find  much  in  our  manage.  You  see,"  she  added, 
blushing,  "  Emile  and  I  have  only  been  married 
about  a  month." 

We  found  the  Dousseaux  Hving  in  the  second  storey 
of  the  roof  of  a  six-storey  house  in  a  narrow  roadway 
leading  from  the  Place  Graslin.  Their  two  rooms 
were  barely  furnished — a  bed,  a  table,  a  wash- 
basin, and  a  looking-glass  were  the  only  pieces  in 
the  bedroom  beside  a  large  shallow  box  on  two 
chairs  made  up  with  straw  mattress  and  bed- 
clothes— "  for  Jean-Fran9ois,"  Suzanne  explained. 
Emile,  who  had  just  come  home  after  a  long  day's 
work  at  the  State  tobacco  factory,  was  tired  and  in 
little  mood  for  conversation.  He  could  only  let 
his  eyes  follow  the  movements  of  his  wife. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  Paris  ?  "  asked  Helen  suddenly. 

"  We  are  both  Parisian,"  Emile  answered.  "  But 
one  must  go  where  work  calls.  There  is  little  enough 
at  the  moment." 

Helen  glanced  over  to  me.  "  Do  you  remember  ?  " 
she  asked.  I  shook  my  head.  Helen  went  to  a 
tiny  black-cat  charm  hanging  from  the  mantel- 
piece. 


202  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  Why  do  you  keep  this  ?  "  she  asked  innocently. 

Emile  laughed  lightly,  and  modestly  recounted — 
our  Parisian  love  scene  ! 

"  You've  got  a  jolly  good  memory,"  I  congratu- 
lated Helen. 

"  Because  my  heart's  bigger  than  my  head,"  she 
replied. 

We  shared  the  Dousseaux'  evening  soup :  Jean 
Pran9ois  had  been  put  to  bed. 

Then  Helen  glanced  over  to  me  with  a  troubled 
countenance. 

"It's  time  we  left,"  she  said. 

When  we  were  again  in  the  roadway  she  clutched 
my  arm. 

"  My  dear,"  she  sobbed,  "  the  place  is  alive. 
They're  all  over  me.  And  I  was  so  happy  having 
tumbled  back  into  romance." 

"  I  wonder  whether  all  romance  is  as  flea-bitten 
as  the  west  coast  of  France,"  I  repUed.  "  What 
shall  we  do  now  ?  " 

"  We  can't  stop  in  this  town  the  night.  I  should 
feel  creepy  all  over  for  ever." 

So,  without  as  much  as  a  good-bye  to  Jean- 
Frangois,  we  fled  from  Nantes.  But  Jean-Fran9ois 
still  receives  post-cards  from  us,  and  only  the  other 
day  we  had  one  from  him  in  childish  hand :  "  «/€ 
vous  aimey  Madame,^  ^ 


XVII 

ONIONS 


You  wiU  have  gathered  by  this  time  something  of 
our  opinion  of  the  West  Coast  of  France  :  these 
sketches  form  a  rough  sort  of  diary  written  while 
impressions  were  still  vivid.  If  you  find  large 
blanks  in  the  narrative  or  consider  the  subjects 
trivial  you  may  be  able  to  deduce  it  the  more 
accurately.  It  is  as  I  described  it  to  Helen  on 
the  last  page.  But  when  the  train  steamed  north- 
ward out  of  Nantes  station  our  hearts  lifted  once 
more. 

The  very  name  of  Brittany  has  magic  in  it.  Her 
menfolk  at  Verdun  forced  from  the  Germans  the 
reluctant  admission  "  What  could  we  do  ?  The 
Bretons  barred  our  way."  The  finest  sailors  of 
the  French  fleet  and  the  sturdiest  fishers  of  her 
coasts  are  Bretons.  Breton  women  are  the  back- 
bone of  her  agriculture,  splendid  wives  and  mothers, 
filled  with  the  natural  refinement  of  the  sea  and 
the  fields,  and  simple  enough  not  to  know  it.  Thun- 
derwater,  which  had  so  far  proved  as  arid  as  the 
sands  it  fell  upon,  was  now  coming  to  its  own. 

II 

The  smell  of  onions  will  always  recall  to  my  mind 
the  picture  of  a  wizened,  watery-eyed  man  (how 
could  he  be  other  than  watery-eyed  in  such  an 
atmosphere  ?)  sitting  for  hours  at  a  stretch  in  a 


204  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

subterranean  shop  in  Vannes.  String  upon  string 
of  onions  hang  from  the  roof,  and  still  the  old  man 
makes  up  fresh  strings  by  some  process  best  known 
to  himself,  diving  his  left  hand  deep  into  a  barrel  at 
his  side  and  working  his  right  convulsively  while 
the  lengthening  string  drops  from  it  to  the  floor, 
then  coils  round  itself,  looking  like  a  snake  that 
has  eaten  tennis-balls.  When  it  has  reached  the 
required  length,  he  hobbles  to  a  chair  placed 
perilously  in  the  centre  of  the  shop,  mounts  it 
with  many  groans  and  hangs  the  new  string  from 
the  beam.  Then  he  returns  to  his  seat  in  the 
corner  and  commences  afresh. 

Nobody  would  have  taken  Melan  le  Rousic  for 
a  fairly  well-to-do  man  or  for  the  father  of  a  re- 
markably handsome  daughter.  Yet  he  was  both  ; 
but  the  loss  of  a  fortune  in  his  middle  age  had 
accentuated  a  certain  capriciousness  of  tempera- 
ment and  now  in  his  decline,  his  mind  had  become 
feeble.  Onions  were  his  passion :  he  asked  for 
nothing  more  than  to  be  allowed  to  string  them  per- 
petually and  to  serve  such  indulgent  customers 
as  came  in  for  small  purchases  of  dried  vegetables. 
He  was  well  known  to  the  fishermen  who  use  Vannes 
as  a  provisioning  centre  and  to  the  farmers  of  the 
surrounding  district,  and  since  he,  or  his  daughter 
rather,  opened  the  shop  nearly  twenty  years  ago, 
economical  management  had  more  than  put  them  on 
their  feet  again.  The  shop  could  have  been  shut 
to-morrow;  but  where  else  could  Melan  le  Rousic 
have  lived  so  peacefully  in  the  midst  of  his  beloved 
onions  ? 

So  to  obtain  society  and  companionship — ^for  she 
could  not  often  leave  her  father — ^Marie-Therese 
le  Rousic  began  to  take  in  lodgers.  For  practical 
purposes  the  shop  was  safe  in  her  father's  hands — 
all,  of  course,  except  the  balancing  of  books  and  the 
ordering  of  fresh  stock — and  when  she  had  tidied 


ONIONS  205 

the  house  till  it  looked  perpetually  as  though  it 
had  just  emerged  from  a  spring  cleaning,  she  found 
time  pass  slowly.  To  interfere  with  her  father's 
little  foibles  was  more  than  she  dared  do ;  being 
reserved  with  strangers,  she  made  few  new  friends ; 
none  of  her  kind  read  (that  was  waste  of  time) ;  but 
she  felt  that  lodgers  might  pleasantly  fill  up  the 
hours  between  the  sewing  and  the  house-work. 

"  Do  you  want  onions  ?  "  growled  Melan,  when  we 
first  entered  the  dingy  little  shop. 

"  No,"  I  said. 

He  grunted.     "  What  is  it  then  ?  " 

"  We  want  a  room,  if  you  have  one  to  spare." 

"  Haven't  one.  Take  some  onions  instead.  They 
are  the  best — and  cheap.  Look  at  this  string, 
only " 

Marie-Therese  entered  the  shop,  filling  it  com- 
pletely with  her  white  lace  cap,  full  sleeves,  and 
elaborate  apron. 

"  Sit  down,  father,"  she  commanded. 

"  But  they  want  onions,"  whined  the  old  man. 

"  No  they  don't." 

"  I  thought  they  did  " — and  he  fell  once  more  to 
forging  another  link  in  his  endless  onion-chain. 

Marie-Th^rtee  led  us  upstairs  to  the  spotless  room 
before  she  said : 

"  You  mustn't  mind  my  father.  Let  him  talk 
to  you  if  he  wishes — it'll  only  be  about  onions  and 
he  soon  tires." 

It  was  the  next  day  when  Melan,  having  become 
more  or  less  accustomed  to  us  in  his  house,  un- 
bosomed himself.  He  clutched  my  sleeve  con- 
vulsively and  gibbered  with  such  dehght  that  his 
watery  eyes  overflowed  down  his  cheeks  as  he  led 
me  into  the  shop. 

"  Look,  look,  look,"  he  chattered  excitedly,  "  two 
metres  of  onions,  all  for  Pezannec  who  ordered 
them  from  me.     Two  metres  !     You  don't  know 


206  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

P^zannec,  do  you  ?  A  fine  fellow  who  owns  his 
own  boat  and  who  always  comes  to  me  for  his 
onions.  He  says  I  give  him  best  value  for  money. 
He  is  a  great  friend  of  mine,  is  Pezannec,  one  of  my 
best  customers,  very  fond  of  onions." 

He  motioned  me  to  the  chair  in  the  centre  of  the 
shop. 

"  P6zannec  says,"  he  continued,  "  that  one  of 
these  days  I  shall  have  to  plait  him  some  sails  of 
onions  for  his  boat.  I  told  you  he  was  a  fine  fellow, 
didn't  I  ?  Well,  you  mustn't  tell  anybody,  but 
I've  begun.  Look  in  that  corner  over  there — the 
one  behind  you.  You  think  they're  only  a  heap  of 
onions,  don't  you  ?     Now  feel  of  them." 

The  apparent  heap  was,  in  truth,  an  enormous 
web,  as  closely  woven  as  the  onions  would  allow, 
and  tremendously  heavy.  I  must  have  involuntarily 
expressed  some  pathetic  amusement,  for  Melan 
doubled  himself  up  with  senile  laughter. 

"  It's  a  good  joke,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  chuckled.  "  But 
you  mustn't  tell  Pezannec  on  any  account.  He 
will  be  so  pleased  when  he  comes  to  order  the  sails 
and  finds  they're  already  done    for    him — all    of 

onions.     I  shall  hand  them  to  him  like  this " 

and  he  struck  a  pompous  attitude ;  then  wagged 
an  admonishing  finger  at  me.  "  You  won't  tell 
him  ?     Now  promise  me." 

The  name  of  Pezannec  entered  so  much  into  this 
and  subsequent  conversations  with  Melan  that  I 
was  moved  to  ask  Marie-Therese  who  he  was.  Her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  The  best  fellow  in  the  world,"  she  replied. 

It  seemed  that  when  Melan,  before  the  loss  of 
his  money  in  a  fraudulent  company,  had  owned 
several  boats  and  was  on  the  way  to  being  the 
master  of  a  large  fleet,  Pezannec,  then  a  youth, 
had  occupied  a  junior  position  in  his  smallest  vessel. 
After  the  crash,  the  boats  were  sold  and  the  crews 


ONIONS  207 

scattered  :  many  families  left  the  town  to  try  their 
fortunes  in  other  ports,  and  among  them  young 
Pezannec.  It  was  not  until  five  years  ago  that  he 
returned  and  in  his  own  boat. 

"  He  came  into  the  shop  one  day,"  said  Marie- 
Th^rese,  "  and  saw  my  father  at  his  onions. 

"  'You  may  not  remember  me,  Monsieur,'  he 
began,  but  my  father  interrupted  him : 

"  '  Do  you  want  any  onions  ?  ' 

"  A  queer  expression  came  into  Pezannec's  eyes. 
He  looked  round  the  shop,  then,  seizing  two  great 
armfuls,  he  said  :  '  Yes,  I'll  have  these.' 

"  My  father  almost  cried  for  joy,  for  it  was  the 
biggest  sale  he  had  ever  made — ^two  large  armfuls 
all  at  once.  And  when,  a  few  days  later,  Pezannec 
came  again  into  the  shop,  I  found  my  father  on  his 
knees  thanking  him  and  telUng  him  that  he  had 
made  life  worth  living  for  a  broken  old  man.  Since 
then,  Pezannec  has  never  ceased  to  make  regular 
purchases  and  he  and  my  father  are,  as  you  have 
heard,  on  the  best  of  terms.  But  my  father  does 
not  know  who  Pezannec  is,  and  I  cannot,  for  the  life 
of  me,  imagine  what  Pezannec  does  with  all  the 
onions  he  buys." 

I  had  only  one  glimpse  of  "  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world."  He  was  standing  over  Melan,  examining 
the  two-metre  string. 

"  A  fine  piece  of  work,"  I  heard  him  say.  "  You 
ought  to  be  proud  of  it." 

"  But  it  is  for  you,"  argued  Melan.  "  You  ordered 
it,  you  know." 

"  Dame,  oui,  I  had  forgotten."  Pezannec  went  on 
scratching  his  head,  however,  as  if  his  memory  were 
still  playing  him  false. 

At  that  moment  Melan  caught  sight  of  us  as  we 
passed  through  the  shop. 

"  Good  friends  should  know  one  another,"  he  cried. 
"  Let  us  introduce  over  the  health-giving  onions." 


208  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Pezannec  smiled,  and  entered  into  easy  conversa- 
tion which  Melan  followed  with  little  hoots,  chuckles, 
sighs  and  clapping  of  hands. 

"  But  perhaps  I  ought  to  explain  myself,"  said 
Pezannec  suddenly. 

"  There  is  no  need,"  I  replied.  "  Your  light  has 
not  been  under  a  bushel  as  far  as  we  are  concerned." 

"  He  was  the  best  employer  imaginable," — ^with  a 
nod  at  Melan.  "It  is  sad,  such  an  ending.  One 
is  able  to  help  sometimes  in  odd  ways." 

He  laughed  nervously,  and  then,  as  if  he  were 
making  a  tremendous  confession  : 

"  Do  you  know  that  since  I  have  taken  to  eating 
quantities  of  onions  I  have  been  twice  as  healthy." 

As  we  aU  laughed  Marie-Therese  passed  through 
the  shop  into  the  house.  Pezannec's  eyes  lingered 
after  the  door  was  closed. 

"  There  goes  a  fine  woman,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  a  wife,  what  a  mother  !  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  smile  and 
a  bow  went  to  the  door. 

"  But  you  have  forgotten  the  onions,"  cried  Melan 
wildly. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  my  memory  is  a  sieve."  Pezannec 
looped  the  long  onion  chain  over  his  arm.  As  he 
reached  the  door  Marie- Therese's  voice  was  heard 
singing  to  herseK. 

"  She  is  very  happy,  thank  God,"  said  Pezannec, 
and  wiped  away  a  certain  moisture  which  had 
accumulated  in  his  eye. 

"  Don't  look  so  tragic,"  he  cried  to  Helen  as  he 
closed  the  door.     "It's  only  these  accursed  onions  ! 

m 

Marie-Therese  de  Rousic  was  an  ardent  upholder 
of  Breton  tradition :  it  was  her  pride  that  her 
costume  was  among  the  finest  in  Vannes.  But  she 
was  by  no  means  gratified  when  some  English  or 


ONIONS  209 

American  tourist,  scenting  photographic  prey,  would 
turn  his  camera  on  her  :  as  often  as  not  she  would 
wheel  in  the  opposite  direction,  or  holding  her  nose 
high  in  the  air,  brush  past  him  as  one  brushes  past 
a  pariah  dog.  She  had  refused  time  and  again  to 
sit  to  artists — her  portrait  might  have  been  in  some 
of  the  big  galleries  of  Europe.  A  solitary  photo- 
graph over  the  living-room  mantelpiece  com- 
memorated her  beauty.  That  photograph  was  a 
thing  to  marvel  at. 

For  while  the  face  of  Breton  women  in  youth  and 
middle-age  tends  to  excessive  simplicity,  that  of 
Marie-Th^rese  showed  finely  tempered  strength. 
Here,  one  felt,  was  a  woman  who,  from  experience, 
knew  something  of  the  meaning  of  life,  yet,  from 
lack  of  introspection,  was  herself  unconscious  of  the 
knowledge.  She  had  the  habit  of  taking  things 
happily  as  they  came,  neither  forcing  events  nor 
being  forced  by  them,  superior  to  the  surface  cur- 
rents of  life,  hardly  aware  of  its  ground  swell, 
shaping  her  own  course  almost  intuitively  through 
both  towards  some  spot  as  yet  beyond  the  horizon. 
Her  daily  duties  and  her  daily  pleasures  filled  her 
mind,  leaving  little  space  for  vanities — always 
excepting  her  Breton  costume. 

That  was  a  passion  with  her.  To  keep  it  sans 
reproche  occupied  most  of  her  leisure  during  the 
week :  every  Sunday  it  appeared,  if  possible,  more 
resplendent  than  on  the  last,  for  in  the  week  some- 
thing would  have  been  done  to  renovate  or  wash  or 
iron  the  already  dazzHng  apparel.  From  the  bot- 
tom of  her  heavily  embroidered  apron  to  the  top- 
most pinnacle  of  her  lace  cap,  she  was  a  sight  to 
make  a  Breton  thrill  with  national  pride.  Her 
heavy  velvet  skirt  clasped  so  wasp-Uke  a  waist,  her 
sleeves  were  so  very  full,  her  cap  was  so  remark- 
able an  example  of  the  needlewoman's  art,  that  mere 
man  could  not  tell  you  half  her  glories — unless  he 


210  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

were  in  love  with  her.  Even  Pezannec,  whose  love 
was  hampered  only  by  a  feeling  of  the  difference  in 
their  social  status — for  had  not  her  father  been  his 
employer  ? — could  but  roll  up  his  eyes  and  emit  a 
long,  low  whistle  when  I  asked  him  to  describe  her 
dress  to  me  as  it  should  be  fittingly  described.  To 
Helen,  however,  Marie-Th^r^e  herself  was  more 
communicative. 

"  As  for  girls  who  give  up  wearing  their  dresses," 
she  told  Helen,  "  I  look  upon  them  as  traitors.  I 
know  we  are  all  French  now,  and  I  am  proud  of 
that,  but  the  Breton  blood  runs  even  deeper.  We 
are  Bretons  first.  We  have  kept  our  native  tongue 
but  that,  as  well  as  the  dress,  is  becoming  out  of 
date.  Both  are  thought  old-fashioned,  and  girls 
wear  the  foolish  Parisian  modes  which  change  every 
few  months  and  which  don't  suit  them,  bien  entendu. 
This  dress,  I  know,  cost  fifteen  hundred  francs 
and  that  is  a  lot  of  money.  But  the  young  girls 
will  spend  even  more  if  they  try  to  keep  up  with 
Paris.  And  they  will  not  be  Bretons — ^that, 
Madame,  is  the  pity." 

It  was  an  unusual  concession  on  Marie-Thertee's 
part  to  allow  Helen  to  put  on  her  costume :  Helen 
was  more  pleased  with  the  experience  than  with  the 
comfort  of  the  dress. 

"  It  was  simply  unbearably  hot,"  she  said  to  me 
afterwards.  "  I  had  to  hold  my  breath  as  hard  as 
I  could  while  it  was  being  adjusted,  and  it  was  quite 
difficult  to  push  the  skirt  in  front  of  me  when  I 
walked.  The  neck  was  tight  and  close  and  I  was 
always  in  terror  of  the  cap.  No,  my  dear,  the 
Breton  costume  may  be  suitable  for  the  Bretons, 
but  give  me  reasonable  fashions,  even  if  they  do 
cost  more  money." 

Pezannec,  too,  indulged  in  Breton  dress  on  Sun- 
days and  feast-days — his  broad-brimmed  hat  with 
two  velvet  streamers  and    velvet    facings    to  his 


ONIONS  211 

short  jacket  had  become,  however,  a  trifle  the  worse 
for  wear.     He  wore  them  rather  sheepishly. 

"  I'm  not  certain  that  they're  quite  right  nowa- 
days," he  replied  to  a  question  of  mine,  "  except  for 
peasants.  I'm  a  sailor,  you  see,  and  one  wears  a 
sweater  and  a  close-fitting  cap  with  greater  comfort. 
Besides,  we're  French,  after  all,  so  what's  the  object 
in  trying  to  pretend  we're  something  different  ?  " 

"  Marie-Therese  would  call  that  heresy,"  I  sug- 
gested.    He  shrugged. 

"  I  know  it.  But  Marie-Therese,  you  see — she's 
missed  so  much  one  can  forgive  her  foibles.  She's 
her  own  little  world  and  rejects  everjrfching  that 
doesn't  fit  in  with  it.  I  don't  suppose  she's 
been  outside  Brittany  in  her  life.  But  these  fancy 
dresses  have  got  to  go :  they're  hindering  us  in  the 
world  as  it  is  to-day.  We  can't  afford  to  live  on 
tourists." 

"  That  is  the  last  thing  Marie-Therese  would 
have  you  do,"  I  rephed. 

"  Then,  with  all  due  respect  to  her.  Monsieur,  she 
had  best  leave  off  her  present  costume.  It  is  beauti- 
ful, oh  yes,  enchanting,  ravishing — but  it  is  not 
practical." 

I  could  not  help  wondering  which,  after  all,  was 
better  worth  preserving  :  the  world  of  charm  and 
beauty  and  tradition  of  Marie-Therese  or  the  practi- 
cal one  of  Pezannec.  And,  being  EngUsh,  I  won- 
dered further  whether,  after  all,  there  mightn't  be 
a  compromise. 


XVIII 

HOLLYHOCK-LAND 


If  you  know  Baptiste  Coriton  you  know  the  whole 
country  between  Vannes  and  Lorient. 

Baptiste  lives  in  a  little  whitewashed  cottage  in 
Plouharnel,  by  the  side  of  which  the  long  finger 
of  land  stretches  down  to  Quiberon.  It  looks  out 
over  the  sheltered  sea  and  beyond  the  peninsula 
to  the  stormy  Atlantic  :  behind  it  the  long  megalithic 
lines  of  Carnac  stand  isolated  both  in  situation  and 
in  time  ;  but  you  cannot  see  them  from  his  garden 
because  of  the  intervening  wall  of  hollyhocks. 
Hollyhocks  line  a  narrow  path  from  the  roadway 
to  the  green-painted  front  door  and  they  are 
planted  in  ragged  masses  round  his  well. 

"  They  are  so  easily  reared,"  is  his  excuse. 

Where  there  are  not  hollyhocks,  tall  and  straight 
and  unbending,  there  are  chubby,  fluffy  masses  of 
pink  and  mauve  hydrangeas.  The  two  flowers 
form,  between  them,  so  concise  a  picture  of  Coriton 
and  his  wife  that  from  the  first  comparison  is  irresis- 
tible. 

".  .  .  The  wedding  was  celebrated  yesterday  of 
Hydrangea  Ce-qu'on-veut  of  Plouharnel,  Morbihan, 
and  Hollyhock  Coriton,  warrant  of^cer  in  the  Fleet 
of  the  French  Republic,  of  the  same  village.  The 
bride,  departing  from  the  usual  custom  of  orange 
blossom  and  white,  was  becomingly  attired  in  pink, 
over  which  was  draped  a  delicate  mauve  veil  touched 


HOLLYHOCK-LAND  213 

with  green.     The  bridegroom's  red  epaulettes  and 
cap  .  .   ." 

That  must  have  been  long  ago,  however,  if,  in- 
deed, the  reporter's  imagination  has  not  been 
running  away  with  itself.  For  under  a  glass  case  in 
the  bedroom  is  still  preserved  the  elaborate  orange- 
blossom  bridal  crown  of  Madame,  and  a  Uttle  con- 
temporary painting  of  Baptiste,  very  resplendent 
in  his  uniform,  finally  disposes  of  any  chance  of 
his  having  worn  red  either  in  whole  or  in  part. 
As  much  blue  and  silver  as  you  Hke — but  these  are 
not  the  colours  of  hollyhocks,  so  that  the  resemblance 
can  only  have  been  in  form,  not  in  colour. 

Yet  not  completely.  Baptiste's  face,  or  as  much 
as  can  be  seen  beyond  his  pointed  black  beard  and 
fiercely  curled  moustaches,  is  crimson.  So  is  his 
neck  and  chest  which  his  open  shirt-front  expose 
constantly  to  the  sun.  One  might  be  tempted 
to  wonder  whether  he  is  not  crimson  all  over  Hke 
a  newly  boiled  lobster,  for  all  that  can  be  seen  is 
hollyhock  colour.  So  that,  after  all,  the  reporter 
may  have  been  right  in  the  very  words  in  which  he 
seemed  to  blunder. 

You  never  see  a  hollyhock  bent  with  age. 
Baptiste  will  die  with  a  back  like  a  poker.  When 
he  sits  down  it  is  plainly  an  effort  to  induce  the 
necessary  curves,  when  he  tends  his  garden  (which 
has  become  lately  his  chief  interest  in  life)  he  stoops 
as  a  telegraph-pole  might  to  look  at  a  daisy.  He 
must  at  all  times  be  straightening  out  creases,  try- 
ing even  now  to  make  his  six  feet  a  little  taller, 
his  hairy  chest  a  little  broader,  his  voice  a  httle 
deeper,  his  moustaches  a  little  more  ferocious. 
If  he  were  to  take  off  his  hat  you  might  see  the 
bald  patch  in  the  very  centre  of  his  head — so  he 
keeps  himself  covered  as  long  as  possible. 

There  is  only  one  occasion  on  which  he  crumples. 

"  They  said  I  was  too  old,"  he  cries  " — ^I  who 


214  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

could  have  navigated  any  ship  they  had  chosen 
to  give  me — ^I  who  have  fought  in  China,  who  have 
won  all  these  medals,  who  have  retired  honourably 
on  a  pension  and  am  still  fit — ^they  said  I  was  too  old. 
So  I  sent  my  sons — ^poor  tools,  both  of  them,  com- 
pared with  their  father  !  And  what  was  the  result  ? 
Pouf  I  I  could  have  foreseen  it.  Had  I  been  in 
charge  of  the  ship,  it  would  not  have  happened, 
they  would  both  be  here  now.  The  navigator  was 
a  fool,  or  worse — and  what  did  he  know  of  war  ? 
But  my  boys  were  in  his  hands.  I  said  they  were 
poor  tools — ^but  they  were  fine  lads,  all  the  same. 
I  could  have  made  something  of  them  if  only  I  had 
been  allowed.     What  else  was  there  for  me  to  do  ?  " 

At  such  times,  his  daughter  is  Uttle  comfort  to 
him  :  she  even  adds  to  his  perplexities. 

"  Look  at  the  great  hulking  louts  who  were  saved 
from  the  same  ship,"  he  cries.  "  One  of  them  wiU 
come  soon  and  want  to  marry  Agnes — and  as  likely 
as  not  she  will  accept  him.  I  see  them  walking  about 
the  village  together  even  now,  and  my  heart  cries 
out  against  it, '  Would  it  had  been  you  who  had  been 
drowned  in  place  of  my  boys  ! '  It  is  wrong,  I 
know,  but  when  a  father  is  distracted  he  cannot 
always  keep  pace  with  his  thoughts,  God  forgive 
him.  And  if  Agnes  accepts,  can  I  refuse  to  bring 
this  ghastly  memory  into  my  own  house  to  live 
with  me  ?  .  .  .  I  think,  M'sieu,  I  will  go  and  water 
the  cabbages." 

The  cabbages  are  frequently  watered,  I  fear : 
they  are  such  healthy  plants. 

But  do  not  imagine  that  Baptiste  lives  in  his 
gloomy  memories.  The  hollyhocks  and  hydrangeas 
bring  smiles  which  poke  forward  his  beard  and 
bristle  his  moustaches,  and  a  merry  glitter  to  his 
eye.  Next  year  he  is  going  to  have  an  even  braver 
show :  and  there  are  to  be  jucier  vegetables  and 
more  tempting  fruit  in  his  half  hectare  of  garden. 


HOLLYHOCK-LAND  215 

During  the  winter  he  is  to  repaint  his  boat  and — 
but  if  I  tell  you  the  secret,  you  must  keep  it  strictly 
to  yourself. 

Baptiste  is  to  have  a  new  pair  of  trousers. 

The  ones  he  wears  now  are  so  plentifully  sprinkled 
with  blue  patches  that  Uttle  of  the  original  material 
is  left :  and  Madame  is  constrained,  when  visitors 
are  present,  to  force  him  to  the  table  where  all 
below  his  waist  is  hidden.  His  Sunday  pair,  blue 
and  white  check,  hang  neatly  creased  from  a  peg 
in  the  hall,  together  with  his  double-breasted  coat 
and  blue  waistcoat.  But  it  takes  little  examination 
to  perceive  spots  in  which  the  check  is  almost  worn 
off  and  others  in  which  the  stuff  has  become 
inconveniently  shiny ;  and  the  Coritons,  having 
lived  in  Plouharnel  for  generations,  are  people  of 
some  standing  who  have  to  keep  up  appearances. 
The  small  box  in  the  corner  into  which,  sometimes, 
Madame  sUps  a  franc  might  be  labelled  "  Appear- 
ances Fund." 

"  And  what  about  you  ?  "  asked  Helen  one  day, 
when  she  surprised  her  in  the  act. 

"  Oh  well,"  laughed  Madame  timidly,  "  as  for 
me,  black  is  an  excellent  wearing  colour,  n^est  pas^ 
Madame  ?  " 

n 

When  I  said  that  to  know  Baptiste  was  to  know 
the  whole  Morbihan  district,  I  ought  to  have  quali- 
fied the  statement :  to  know  him  is  to  know  it  at  its 
best.  For  as  many  different  kinds  of  folk  are 
settled  here  as  there  are  rocks  and  islands  at  low 
tide — ^penurious  or  hard-working,  rooted  to  the  soil 
or  sullenly  independent,  but  all  of  them,  even  the 
few  rich,  meagre  in  their  ways  of  Hving,  Bread, 
home-grown  vegetables,  cider,  sometimes,  on  high 
days  and  holidays,  a  little  meat  comprise  their 
ordinary  diet.     And  on  this  one  grows  neither  fat 


216  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

nor  intelligent.      In  hot  weather  especially,  cider, 
weak  though  it  is,  tells  its  tale. 

Baptiste  makes  occasional  visits  to  the  local 
Debit  de  Boissons — one  must,  he  says,  see  how  the 
village  is  going  on.  He  rules  there  by  triple  right — 
by  superior  personality,  by  having  held  a  position 
in  the  Navy,  by  being  a  Coriton.  His  big  voice 
reverberates  round  the  low,  dark  taproom  and  con- 
trasts strangely  with  the  quavering  voices  of  the 
peasants.  They  themselves  feel  the  difference,  and 
there  are  times  when  this  jealousy  creeps  out  un- 
awares. 

"  Ah,  it's  all  very  fine  for  you  to  talk  like  that," 
grumbled  one  of  them  to  a  rebuke  of  Baptist e's, 

but  we  can't  all  be  sailors." 

"  No,"  snapped  Coriton,  "  but  you  can  try  to  be 
men,  instead  of  chaff." 

"  Why  should  we  ?  Peasants  we  are  and 
peasants  we  shall  always  remain :  you  know  that 
well  enough.  We  shall  never  have  your  money  nor 
your  opportunities,  however  much  we  are  men,  as 
you  call  it.     Now  if  we  were  Coritons  ..." 

"  You'd  be  promptly  turned  out  of  the  family, 
my  friend."  There  was  a  glitter  in  Baptiste's 
eye.     "  What's  that  you've  got  there  ?  " 

"  Only  a  glass  of  cider,  morhleu  !  " 

"  Your  first  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  That !  " — Baptiste  strode  over  to  the  peasant, 
and  seizing  the  glass,  threw  the  cider  out  of  the 
window.  "  You're  fuddled :  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  you.  You  know  perfectly  well  you 
can't  work  in  a  sunny  field  with  your  belly  full  of 
that  muck.  Now,  M'selle " — ^turning  to  the  as- 
tonished woman  behind  the  counter,  "  how  much 
was  that  ?     I'm  going  to  pay  for  it." 

The  peasant,  rising  to  his  feet,  was  spluttering 
angrily. 


HOLLYHOCK-LAND  217 

"  Get  outside  while  you  can,"  said  Baptiste  to 
him.     "  You'll  live  to  thank  me,  you  fool." 

"  I  believe  he's  drunk  himself,"  put  in  another 
peasant. 

"  Who  said  that  ?  "  asked  Coriton.  But  there 
was  no  answer.     One  by  one  the  peasants  slunk  out. 

Then  Baptiste  approached  the  counter.  "  I 
want  you  to  understand  that  I'm  not  trying  to  ruin 
your  trade,"  he  said.  "  I'm  only  trying  to  save 
these  men  from  themselves." 

"  I  suppose  you  may  think  that  a  sailor  shouldn't 
talk  about  agriculture,"  he  said  to  me  afterwards, 
"  but  though  you  are  a  stranger  here,  you  must 
have  seen  things  for  yourself.  These  men  on  the 
farms  work  long  hours  but  that  is  largely  their  own 
fault.  Your  agricultural  labourer  in  England — ^I 
have  met  him — is  a  very  different  fellow — more 
intelligent,  more  resourceful  than  these  men.  He, 
therefore,  does  not  need  to  spend  his  whole  life  in  the 
fields.  If  you  were  to  give  these  fools  here  a 
machine  to  do  the  work  for  them,  they  would  run 
to  the  priest  about  it  or  else  smash  it  in  their 
terror.  Cider  and  a  full  stomach  is  their  idea  of 
Paradise." 

"  But  your  Breton  soldiers,"  1  contradicted. 
Baptiste  laughed. 

"  Oh,  they're  pig-headed  too,  though  the  towns- 
people are  better  stuff,  and,  luckily,  they  were  well 
led.     But  the  finest  men  are  the  fishermen." 

"  Though  in  matters  of  the  sea,  I  suppose  you 
claim  to  be  unprejudiced  ?  "  I  interrupted. 

"  I  try  to  be,"  replied  Baptiste.  "  But  you 
may  judge  for  yourself." 

We  were  walking  down  the  village  street  during 
this  conversation,  and  reached  Baptiste' s  cottage. 
Imagine  my  surprise  when,  with  an  expression  of 
unprintable  profanity,  Baptiste  suddenly  leapt  his 
own  gate  and  set  off  at  a  smart  pace  down  his 


218  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

garden  path.  Looking  from  the  road,  I  could  not 
see  his  objective  but  presently  he  returned,  drag- 
ging by  the  collar  a  dirty  urclun  smeared  with  tears 
and  fruit-juice. 

"  I  will  teach  you  to  steal  my  plums,"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  me,  M'sieu,"  snivelled  the  boy. 

"Not  as  hard  as  a  stick,"  replied  Baptiste, 
"  here's  a  nice  soft  switch." 

Holding  him  at  arm's  length,  Baptiste  adminis- 
tered elementary  justice  till  the  boy  let  out  a  pierc- 
ing yell.     Then  he  stopped. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

The  boy's  hands  were  occupied  with  his  eyes, 
and  the  seat  of  his  trousers  respectively.  ^  His 
answer  was  incoherent. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  grow  up  a  man  ?  "  pursued 
Baptiste.     The  boy  nodded. 

"  And  do  men  steal  fruit  ?  "  The  boy  shook  his 
head,  but  dubiously. 

"  Well  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  puzzled. 

"  You  haven't  told  me  all."  • 

"  Only  that  I  was  hungry,  M'sieu." 

"  Where  is  your  father  ?  " 

"  In  the  fields,  M'sieu." 

"  And  you  have  eaten  to-day  ?  " 

"  A  piece  of  bread." 

"  And  ?  " 

"  Nothing  else,  M'sieu." 

"  That  does  not  excuse  your  stealing  fruit,  my 
young  friend.  But  it  does  excuse  your  being 
hungry.     Follow  me." 

The  youngster  looked  as  if  he  would  bolt,  but 
Baptiste's  hand  was  firmly  on  his  collar. 

"  Mother,"  he  called  out  as  they  approached 
the  house,  "  have  you  any  soup  ?  " 

"  Only  enough  for  ourselves,   Baptiste,"  replied 


HOLLYHOCK-LAND  219 

Madame  from  the  interior  of  the  kitchen.  "  Have 
you  brought  a  visitor  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  entered  with  the  boy,  and  sat  him  down  to 
the  table. 

"  My  soup,  please.  Mother,"  he  said  and  handed 
it  on  to  the  urchin,  watching  him  with  a  smile 
while  it  was  wolfed  down  his  throat. 

"  Now,"  he  said  when  it  was  finished,  "  don't 
go  steaKng  fruit.  Those  plums  weren't  ripe,  and 
you  will  probably  suffer  again  for  it — ^which  will 
teach  you  not  to  join  the  army  of  fools.  Come 
back  to-morrow  night  and  I'll  give  you  some  more 
soup,  on  condition  that  you'll  tell  your  father  when 
you  get  home  that  you've  been  thrashed  for  stealing." 

"  Poor  Uttle  devil,"  he  exclaimed,  as  the  boy  ran 
up  the  road.  And  then  he  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 
"  Fancy  my  jumping  that  gate.  And  they  said  I 
wasn't  fit !  " 

m 

Fbom  Plouhamel  a  dusty  road  leads  through  Camac 
and  La  Trinite  to  Locmariaquer,  and  what  is 
curious  about  this  road  is  that  it  joins  two  un- 
sophisticated villages  by  means  of  two  "  resorts." 
Camac  and  La  Trinite  have  largely  lost  their  pictur- 
esque interest  in  endeavours  after  financial  pros- 
perity. At  Camac  are  big  hotels,  at  La  Trinite  two 
rather  more  modest  estabHshments,  but  it  is  not 
these  only  that  deprive  their  town  of  the  Breton 
characteristics.  No  national  tradition  is  safe 
against  contamination  by  the  "  big  world." 

We  arrived  at  La  Trinite  hot,  dusty  and  empty, 
and,  as  temptation  would  have  it,  the  first  shop  we 
saw  was  a  Httle  one-roomed  cottage,  a  tiny  patisserie 
— ^the  kind  of  shop  Miss  Matty  must  have  kept  in 
Cranford — with  a  hedge  of  wild  rose  trees,  and  two 
real  Miss  Mattys  inside,  who  served  us  with  tiny 


220  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

cakes  carefully  extracted  out  of  tin  boxes.  They 
held  up  horror-stricken  hands  over  the  quantities 
of  dust  Helen  managed  to  shake  out  of  her  clothing, 
and  quite  plainly  looked  upon  me  as  a  monster  for 
making  the  poor  girl  walk  so  far. 

"  But  Madame  is  tired,"   they  exclaimed  com- 
passionately. 

"  A  Httle,"  confessed  Helen. 

"  Madame  should  not  carry  that  load.     Oh,  it  is 
heavy." 

"  It's  the  dust  that  makes  one  tired,"  laughed 
Helen  "  — and  being  hungry." 

Cakes   were   immediately   forthcoming   in   quite 
alarming  quantities. 

"  Madame  is  not  English  ?  "  asked  one  of  them 
puzzled. 

"  Yes." 

The  two  glanced  at  each  other. 

"  But  you  do  not  dress  like  the  English,"  said 
the  one  who  had  first  put  the  question. 

"  Well,  you  see,  we  haven't  a  national  costume 
like  you  Bretons." 

"  No,  but  I  thought  all  English  women  carried 
gloves  and  a  sunshade.     They  do  here,  at  any  rate." 

"  They're  probably  rich  people  who  spend  the 
summer  here,  then." 

The  old  soul  shrugged.  "  But  isn't  every  English 
person  rich  ?  " 

We  all  laughed  at  this.  "  I  know  a  good  many 
who  aren't  but  who  would  give  a  lot  for  your 
riches,"  replied  Helen.  This  made  the  couple  arch 
their  eyebrows  in  surprise.  It  was  as  if  both  of 
them  suddenly  had  made  the  tremendous  discovery 
that  their  goods — ^poor  though  they  had  thought 
them — ^were  coveted  by  someone  else — a  very 
natural,  if  un-Christian,  source  of  gratification. 

"  That  bed,  for  instance,"  went  on  Helen,  "  we'd 
give  anything  for  it  in  our  country.     And  all  your 


HOLLYHOCK-LAND  221 

old  china  and  carved  furniture.     If  you  sold  that 
in  England,  you'd  make  your  fortune."  ^^^ 

"  Ah,  but  such  furniture  isn't  made  nowadays, 
even  in  Brittany,  Madame.  That  is  real  Breton 
oak.  But  then  all  our  old  customs  are  going,  and 
we  shall  soon  be  just  like  the  rest  of  France.  That 
was  why  I  thought  Madame  couldn't  be  English — 
because  she  dressed  differently  from  her  country- 
women." 

This  gradual  crumbling  of  national  tradition  was 
brought  home  to  us  again  on  the  following  day  when 
La  Trinite  held  its  fete.  There  was  dancing  on  the 
Quay  to  the  music  of  the  biniou — ^the  Breton  bag- 
pipes— ^when  the  old  Breton  dances  were  revived. 
Yes,  though  I  wrote  the  word  inadvertently,  it  is 
the  right  one.  Out  of  the  crowd  of  three  hundred 
inhabitants  who  gathered  round,  less  than  fifty 
took  part  diu*ing  the  whole  evening — and  these  were 
the  oldsters.  I  doubt  whether  a  single  man  or 
woman  under  the  middle  thirties  joined  in.  The 
Mayor,  who  acted  as  Master  of  Ceremonies,  was 
inclined  to  be  despondent. 

*'  You  can  have  no  idea  what  changes  the  war  has 
brought  with  it,"  he  told  me,  as  we  sipped  cider 
together  during  a  well-merited  interval.  "  The 
people  even  don't  seem  the  same.  I'm  all  for  the 
old  customs,  I  am — that's  why  I'm  fostering  these 
dances  so  carefully — ^but  the  folk  here  are  smitten 
with  the  Parisian  craze — '  modern '  dresses,  you 
know ;  and  look  at  those  huzzies  covered  in  paint 
and  powder.  They're  the  new  school,  who  won't 
dress  their  children  in  the  Breton  costume — ^the 
school  I'm  fighting." 

"  With  what  success  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  merely  laughed  cynically.     "  Listen,"  he  said. 

A  table  or  two  away  a  heated  discussion  was  in 
progress  between  an  old  man  and  a  young. 

"  I've  led  nearly  every  dance  to-day,"  grumbled 


222  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

the  old  man,  "  and  nobody  comes  in  with  me.  I'm 
tired  of  it." 

"  Never  mind,  father," — ^this  flippantly  from  the 
young  one. 

"  Never  mind,  you  say,  eh  ?  " — ^the  old  man's 
voice  rose  as  another  glass  of  cider  descended. 
"  Why  don't  you  help  too,  young  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  these  dances." 

"What!  Don't  know  them?"  the  old  man's 
voice  had  risen  almost  to  a  wail. 

"  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  We  dance 
in  a  different  style  nowadays." 

The  old  man  snorted  indignantly  and  went  off 
to  lead  the  next  dance.  The  young  man  joined 
in  the  gavotte,  dancing  a  waltz. 

"  You  see,"  nodded  the  Mayor  to  me  from  the 
other  side  of  the  crowd. 

I  wonder  how  long  it  will  be  before  Brittany  ceases 
to  be  Brittany  at  all.  Nationality  is  not  to  be  the 
one  good  custom  to  corrupt  the  world. 

rv 

This  story  seems  to  have  strayed  a  long  way  from 
its  title.  But  not  as  far  as  you  might  imagine,  for 
the  district  around  the  west  side  of  the  Morbihan 
is  scattered  with  Coritons,  and  they  are  all  holly- 
hocks in  stature,  as  well  as  in  horticultural  tastes. 
Cousin  Eugenie  Gloannec,who  lived  at  Locmariaquer, 
in  a  little  house  dated  1649,  which  opened  directly 
on  to  the  road,  was  able  by  encroaching  on  the 
pubUc  highway  to  find  space  for  two  bunches  one 
on  each  side  of  the  door.  She  was,  moreover,  a 
Coriton  greatly  to  be  feared,  for  she  was  the  wealthy 
member  of  the  family  and  from  her  secret  box 
could  dispense  or  withhold  as  she  chose.  Nor  was 
she  in  the  least  afraid  of  expressing  her  opinion — 
her  arms  akimbo,  her  neck  poked  forward,  the 
"  visor  "  of  her  irreproachable  cap  fluttering  excitedly 


HOLLYHOCK-LAND  223 

with  every  nod  or  shake  of  her  head,  she  would 
tell  anyone  in  the  village  what  she  thought  of  him 
in  a  voice  tuned  rather  to  the  hurricane  than  to 
the  church  bells  below  which  her  cottage  stood. 
Indeed,  so  loudly  did  she  talk  that  it  was  frequently 
difficult  to  understand  what  she  was  saying. 

But  Cousin  Gloannec  was  not  all  sound  and  fury. 
Li  her  tempestuous  way  she  could  be  kind.  When 
a  beggar  knocked,  one  day,  at  her  door,  she  gave  him 
half  a  loaf  (if  the  rest  of  the  Coriton  family  hadn't 
been  idiots  enough  to  waste  money,  she  declared, 
she  might  have  given  him  a  whole  loaf,  but  one's 
own  family  was  always  a  pack  of  fools  and  thieves) : 
when,  scenting  further  gifts,  the  same  beggar  paid 
a  second  visit,  she  emptied  a  bucket  of  fish-heads 
over  him  from  the  first-floor  window,  and  told  him 
to  call  on  her  nephew  at  La  Trinite — he  might  have 
some  money  to  spare  if  he  hadn't  spent  it  all  on 
cider.  She  confided  to  Helen  afterwards  that  she 
thought  the  fish-head  method  the  surest  one  of 
making  the  beggar  wash  in  hot  weather,  which 
would  be  a  blessing  both  to  himself  and  other 
people. 

Cousin  Gloannec  must  have  had,  too,  a  soft 
spot  in  her  heart  for  Baptiste :  though  she  never 
spoke  of  him  with  affection  his  recommendation 
succeeded  several  times  in  allowing  her  the  privilege 
of  changing  her  mind.  We  were  an  instance  in 
point. 

"  M(m  Dieu,  what  do  you  imagine !  Do  you 
think  me  a  common  lodging-house  keeper,  par 
exemple  F  The  children  want  me  to  let  them  a 
room  !  Nom  de  nom,  I  have  never  heard  the  hke  " 
— ^and  she  regarded  us  with  an  outraged  counten- 
ance. 

"  It  was  M.  Coriton  of  Plouhamel  who  sent  us," 
I  said. 

"  Indeed,  M.  Coriton  of  Plouhamel,  was  it  ?    And 


224  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

what  right  has  he,  I  should  like  to  know,  to  send 
chits  of  children  to  his  cousin  to  beg  for  lodgings  ?  " 

"  He  must  have  known  your  good-nature,"  re- 
torted Helen,  who  was  tired  and  somewhat  irritable. 

"  I  should  think  he  must,"  replied  Cousin  Gloan- 
nec  fiercely.  "  It's  a  pity  he  didn't  know  it  suffi- 
ciently to  put  up  Uttle  spit-fires  Hke  you  himself." 

"  We  have  stayed  with  him  for  several  days 
already." 

"  You  don't  say  so  :  he  must  have  been  hard  up 
for  money.     What  did  he  charge  you  ?  " 

After  some  demur  we  named  the  modest  sum 
Baptiste  had  accepted. 

"  He  was  a  fool,"  opined  Cousin  Gloannec. 

"  Suppose  he'd  wanted  more  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  You'd  have  been  the  fool  then,"  she  snapped. 
"  Come  inside,  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

She  "  did  for  us  "  very  handsomely :  her  big  oak 
ceiUng  beams  and  brass-studded  oak  furniture, 
carved  this  way  and  that  by  quaint  Breton  crafts- 
men, were  sheer  dreams  of  dehght.  Her  embroidered 
linen  and  bed  canopy  made  Helen  gasp.  The  candle 
which  fit  us  to  bed  was  held  in  a  brass  candlestick 
of  formidable  dimensions  and  polish,  and  after  it 
had  been  blown  out  the  yellow  moon-beams  fil- 
tered through  the  window  to  invest  the  whole 
resplendent  room  with  the  weird  mystery  of  dead- 
and-gone  Gloannecs.  The  entire  family  seemed  to 
pass  in  review  before  our  eyes  as  the  light  shifted 
gradually  from  one  object  to  another. 

And  in  the  next  room  its  only  surviving  represen- 
tative was  snoring  Hke  a  steam-engine. 

At  half-past  six  next  morning  we  were  awakened 
by  a  tremendous  knocking  at  the  door.  Cousin 
Gloannec  entered  with  a  breakfast  tray. 

"  They  shall  be  spoiled,  the  Httle  dears,"  she 
roared  at  us,  "  and  have  their  breakfast  brought 
up    to    bed    for    them.     And    understand,    please. 


HOLLYHOCK-LAND  226 

that  I  want  to  tidy  this  room  in  an  hour,  and  if 
you  aren't  out  of  it  by  then  I  shall  march  in  and 
begin  working  no  matter  what  you're  doing.  I 
can't  have  quite  all  my  household  arrangements 
upset  for  your  M.  Coriton  of  Plouharnel." 

When  we  returned  from  a  muddy  and  rather 
crab-ridden  bathe,  she  was  awaiting  us  with  her 
head  poked  far  out  of  the  window. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  she  bellowed.  "  Now  that 
I've  cleaned  this  place  you  won't  bring  your  dirty 
things  in  here.  Just  take  them  round  to  the  back 
and  hang  them  on  the  line." 

As  "  the  back "  comprised  a  dung-heap  and  a 
cow-house,  Helen  objected.  Cousin  Gloannec  be- 
came almost  beside  herself :  she  trembled  with  rage 
as  she  denounced  us  from  our  own  bedroom  window. 
She  reminded  me  of  some  High  Church  dignitary 
pronouncing  excommunication. 

"...  now  will  you  take  them  round  the  back," 
she  concluded  her  tirade. 

"  No,"  said  Helen  stoutly. 

"  I  don't  wonder  Baptiste  turned  you  out,"  she 
shrieked.  "  I've  a  good  mind  to  do  the  same 
myself." 

"  You  needn't  trouble,"  repUed  Helen,  marching 
in  at  the  front  door,  upstairs  and  entering  the  bed- 
room. 

"  Hasn't    she    got    a   temper  ? "    asked    Cousin 
Gloannec    of    me.     "  One    might    have    thought  I 
meant  it."     She  faced   Helen  again.     "  Don't  be 
a  little  cat." 

But  Helen  did  not  answer. 

"  Just  stop  that  packing." 

"  If  you'll  apologise,"  said  Helen,  continuing. 

A  sudden  gleam  of  admiration  came  into  Cousin 
Gloannec' s  eyes. 

''Ditidonc,^^  she  exclaimed.  "You're  the  best 
Coriton  of  them  all." 


226  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Could  one  have  an  ampler  apology  ?  After  that 
we  fraternised  to  such  an  extent  that  no  harsh 
word  was  again  hurled  at  our  offending  heads. 
Indeed,  Cousin  Gloannec  became  even  confiding. 

"  As  for  Baptiste,"  she  told  me  one  day,  "  he's 
all  right,  you  know,  but  he  takes  the  death  of  his 
sons  hardly — ^fooUsh,  I  call  it.  As  soon  as  they 
went  into  the  Navy  I  said  to  him,  '  Baptiste,  mark 
my  words,  those  boys  won't  come  back.'  He  only 
laughed  at  the  time ;  but  I  knew  I  was  right. 
After  all,  what  has  one  got  to  do  in  war  except  be 
killed  ?  And  even  if  they  had  by  chance  come  back, 
they'd  have  been  killed  somehow  else.  So  that  I 
don't  see  what  Baptiste  has  to  make  so  much  fuss 
about." 

"  But  your  own  children  ?  " 

"  Ah  yes,  I  suppose  you're  right,"  she  said. 
"  I've  never  had  any.  I'm  an  inhuman  old  beast 
to  talk  like  that." 

This  was  the  only  time  she  betrayed  emotion. 
And  as  she  had  no  cabbages  to  water,  she  had  to 
cover  it  by  an  extra  polish  to  the  big  brass  candle- 
stick. 


XIX 

THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  PAINTER 

After  we  had  left  roaring  Cousin  Gloannec,  the 
calm  was  so  pronounced  that  we  entered  willy- 
nilly  upon  a  period  of  peaceful  stagnation.  We 
sat  for  hours  beside  hot  Brittany  roads,  sprinkled 
by  the  dust  of  motors  and  moving  only  when 
forced  to.  We  were  still  happily  idling  when  we 
discovered  ourselves  in  financial  drought. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  take  to  work  again," 
I  said  despondently. 

"  That  will  be  a  pity,"  commiserated  Helen. 

So  in  Auray,  with  the  help  of  old  guide-books, 
casual  conversations  with  local  worthies  and  a 
few  execrable  photographs,  I  wrote  a  short  guide  to 
the  megahths  of  the  district  for  the  benefit  of 
English  visitors.  To  my  surprise  it  was  snapped 
up  by  an  enterprising  jobbing  printer  who  paid  me 
well  and  turned  it  into  incomprehensible  rubbish. 
Over  my  attempted  corrections  I  bit  my  nails  to 
the  flesh  and  wore  my  pencil  to  the  merest  stump  : 
I  argued  with  my  employer,  pleaded,  buUied,  pointed 
out  that  he  was  making  a  fool  both  of  himseK  and 
of  me — but  in  vain.  He  answered  obstinately  that 
he  was  the  proud  owner  of  the  only  Enghsh  guide- 
book to  Auray.  I  forbade  him  to  allow  my  name  to 
appear  in  connection  with  it,  and  went  on  my  way 
with  modified  rejoicing. 

But  it  was  by  Jules  Delaunay  that  we  were 
really  roused  out  of   our  lethargy.    He  had  just 


228  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

turned  his  back  on  the  schools  and  the  Quartier 
Latin  so  full  of  ideas  for  the  regeneration  of  the 
painter's  craft  that  it  seemed  as  if  his  head  must 
burst  with  them.  On  no  two  days,  however,  were 
his  ideas  the  same:  a  disciple  of  Corot  one  day,  of 
Picasso  the  next,  of  Fra  Angelico  the  third,  and 
of  some  unknown  Messiah  of  Montmatre  the  fourth, 
he  would  flaunt  his  latest  gospel  in  bur  faces  with 
picturesque  oaths  and  a  whirl  of  arms.  To  keep 
still  seemed  impossible  to  him  when  he  enthused ; 
but  at  other  times  he  would  stare  at  a  bed  of  flowers 
for  twenty  minutes  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"  I  am  going  to  Concameau,"  he  cried  one  day. 
"  I  start  in  an  hour.    Will  you  visit  Mecca  with  me  ?  '^ 

It  appears  to  be  a  convention  among  painters — 
or  is  it  among  the  pubHc  on  whom  they  are  half 
dependent  ? — ^that  Concarneau  is  the  be-all  and 
end-all  of  Brittany.  It  is  assuredly  a  delightful 
place  (more  attractive  at  high  tide  than  at  low), 
but  there  seemed  to  us  little  to  justify  its  preference 
to  the  exclusion  of  such  other  places  as  Vannes  or 
La  Rochelle ;  yet  we  had  not  seen  a  single  easel  in 
either  town  as  compared  with  the  dozens  we  found 
at  Concameau.  Pont  Aven,  beloved  of  artists,  is 
utterly  disappointing;  Pont  FAbbe  .  .  ,  but  per- 
haps I  am  exposing  appalUng  PhiUstinism.  Yet 
even  a  Phihstine  .  .  . 

But  Jules  was  emphatic  in  his  assertion  that  the 
mere  pubHc  were  unable  to  judge  a  picture :  except, 
that  is,  during  his  Tolstoian  periods  when  he 
declared  with  equal  emphasis  that  they  were  the 
sole  arbiters  of  good  taste.  As  mood  followed  mood 
we  wrangled  heatedly  and  verbosely.  And  mean- 
while  the  other  artists  went  on  working. 

They  clustered  round  the  old-world  town  in  the 
harbour  like  flies  round  a  honey-pot,  looking  with 
eyes  of  many  nationalities  at  its  stately  beauty. 
The  pictures  upon  which  they  daily  lavished  them- 


THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  PAINTER  229 

selves  were  good,  bad,  and  most  of  them  indifferent : 
the  best  of  all  was  from  the  brush  of  a  Japanese.  His 
every  spot  of  paint  sparkled  with  hght,  and  he 
whistled  as  he  worked.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to 
take  yourself  seriously  in  such  a  business. 

That  was  where  Jules  went  wrong — ^he  was  out 
to  reform  the  world,  and  succeeded  (on  canvas) 
only  in  making  it  a  much  worse  world  than  it  is. 
He  never  whistled  as  he  worked :  and  his  work 
suffered. 

But  in  one  respect  Jules  was  right — ^when  he  took 
his  cue  from  his  countryman  J.  F.  Millet.  He 
painted  the  peasant  as  he  saw  him,  and  not  with 
the  pretty  conventional  picturesqueness  of  his 
confreres. 

"  He's  a  clodhopping  fool,  you  know,  is  the 
Breton  peasant,"  he  exclaimed  to  me — "  dirty  and 
conservative,  ignorant  and  hopelessly  poor.  Why 
not  paint  him  so  ?  His  costumes — ^they're  gor- 
geous in  colouring  and  design,  but  they're  wicked 
for  those  who  have  to  wear  them :  abolish  them 
and  you'd  halve  the  number  of  cripples  in  Brittany  : 
but  of  course  the  children  are  cripples  when  the 
women  wear  such  abominations.  For  myself  I 
refuse  to  spread  the  idea  that  such  things  are 
desirable  and  to  be  perpetuated  when  I  know, 
and  you  know,  and  everybody  who  thinks  for  him- 
self knows  perfectly  well  that  they're  a  sin  against 
France." 

"  But  are  these  moral  considerations  the  artist's 
job  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Certainly.  If  a  butcher  sold  bad  meat  you'd 
call  him  a  rogue  :  if  I  sold  a  picture  that  reeked 
with  beastliness — as  I  should  do  if  I  painted  these 
costumes — ^I  should  be  a  rogue  too.  If  I  were  to 
paint  an  open  sewer  nobody  would  buy  the  picture  : 
but,  nom  de  nom,  it  would  at  least  be  frank.  This 
method  of  visiting  the  sins  of  the  parents  on  the 


230  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

children  and  calling  it  picturesque  is  like  sprink- 
ling eau-de-cologne  on  the  sewer  and  saying  how 
nice  it  smells." 

"  But  your  own  Millet  isn't  as  hard  on  the 
peasant  as  you  are." 

"  Am  I  hard  on  him,  mon  ami,  if  I  call  him  a  fool 
and  pig  when  he  is  one  ?  I  didn't  pretend  my 
analysis  to  be  complete.  He's  a  dear  old  fool 
because  he  knows  no  better,  just  as  you  and  every- 
body else  are  fools :  it's  only  a  term  of  reproach 
when  the  person  who  uses  it  thinks  himself  superior. 
Millet  didn't :  he  knew  we're  all  a  pack  of  fools 
together,  and  the  peasant  exhibiting  a  certain 
phase  of  foolishness.  Millet  painted  it.  But  it 
was  the  peasant  he  painted,  not  his  costumes  and 
trappings  and  barbarities.  He  left  all  that  sort  of 
thing  to  the  bigger  fools  who  have  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  potter  round  the  outside  because 
they  don't  know  the  peasant  himself. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  on  another  occasion,  "  I'll 
show  you  what  I  mean." 

Five  minutes  with  a  pencil  produced  an  old  man 
with  a  face  like  a  hard  dry  apple,  his  hair  falling 
over  his  elaborately  embroidered  tunic,  his  pleated 
breeches  so  baggy  above  his  spindle-like  legs  that 
they  seemed  to  belong  to  a  different  being.  He 
leant  heavily  on  his  stick  as  he  walked,  the  buckles 
on  his  shoes  flashing  in  the  sunhght.  It  was  a 
wonderfully  vivid  impression  of  a  type  you  may 
see  any  day  in  Brittany. 

In  the  succeeding  five  minutes  Jules  produced  a 
different  picture. 

The  apple  face  and  long  hair  were  the  same : 
but  sabots  replaced  the  buckled  shoes  and  coarsely 
patched,  ill-fitting  smock  and  trousers,  the  elaborate 
costume  of  the  companion  sketch.  You  looked  not 
at  the  clothes  but  at  the  man.  It  was  an  equally 
vivid    impression    of    a   type    you    may   see   any 


THE  PEASANTS  AND  THE  PAINTER  231 

day  in  Brittany — and  pass  over  because  it  is  so 
common. 

"  Now  then,"  asked  Jules,  "  which  of  those  is  the 
real  peasant  ?  "  I  indicated  the  second. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  the  Breton  peasant  so 
intimately  ?  "  I  said,  looking  into  the  kindly  face 
of  the  sketch.  Every  line  Jules  had  put  on  to  the 
paper  was  aUve  with  respect  for  his  subject ;  nothing 
was  overlooked,  nothing  exaggerated.  It  shone  with 
intimate  knowledge. 

"It's  my  father,"  said  Jules  simply.  "  You  see 
I  can  speak  both  as  peasant — a  lucky  one  I  admit — 
and  as  painter.  And  when  you  go  into  these  cot- 
tages of  Brittany,  count  how  many  secular  pictures 
you  see  that  aren't  Millets.  The  peasant  knows 
his  worth,  never  fear.  These  little  summer 
artists  .  .  .  !  " 


XX 

IN  THE   CITY   OF   WATERSMEET 


If  you  feel  inclined  to  envy  the  birds,  it  must  be 
at  Quimper,  for  the  jackdaws  and  the  swallows 
see  so  much  more  of  its  beauty  from  the  air  than 
ever  it  will  be  your  luck  to  see  from  the  ground. 
The  whole  charm  of  Quimper  lies  in  its  roofs  tumbled 
hither  and  thither  as  by  a  gigantic  whirlwind,  bear- 
ing, sometimes,  no  apparent  relation  to  the  houses 
they  cover,  gossiping  over  the  narrow  roadways, 
leaning  against  one  another  for  mutual  support 
or  standing  in  splendid  isolation  until  age  or  the 
hand  of  the  renovator  sweeps  them  away. 

Although,  as  at  Vannes,  the  restorer  has  acted 
both  leniently  and  judiciously.  In  both  towns  you 
may  wander  along  the  streets  and,  in  their  unaltered 
facings,  meet  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries. 
But  in  Quimper  the  pressure  of  business  has  trans- 
formed the  lower  stories  of  many  houses  into  smart 
little  shops  ;  only  the  roofs  remain  in  their  original 
best  style.  And  under  this  picturesque  hat,  which  you 
may  see  from  the  shaded  walks  on  the  hillside  near 
the  Odet,  strut  all  the  comedy  and  tragedy  that 
together  make  up  the  theatrically  natural  Ufe  of 
France. 

n 

It  was  in  Quimper  that  we  found  a  cat. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  this  new  Mend  a  nice  cut- 
and-dried  sort  of  name.     You  don't  christen  cats 


IN  THE  CITY  OP  WATERSMEET     233 

as  you  do  babies;  no  family  quarrel  arises  as  to 
whether  they  shall  be  Cicely,  after  the  grand- 
mother, or  Jane,  after  the  great-aunt.  Their 
name  grows  up  with  them,  and  nobody  can  say 
with  certainty  who  was  the  first  to  fix  on  it;  in 
short,  to  name  a  cat  is  usually  a  serious  matter, 
occupying  much  time  and  attention,  and  when  we 
first  met  him,  Methuselah  was  only  one  day  old. 

I  wish  Helen  wasn't  so  impetuous — she  made  me 
bring  out  the  name  in  the  first  few  lines,  when  I 
had  meant  to  keep  it  back  as  a  specimen  of  her 
wit.  For  it  was  she  who  pounced  upon  both  the 
kitten  and  the  name  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 
photographer's  shop. 

"  Just  look,"  she  cried,  enraptured,  "  there's 
Methuselah,  bless  his  little  heart !  "  And  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  say  it,  the  tiny  blind  bit  of 
white  flujff  was  crawHng  about  her  lap,  uttering 
piteous  "  miaows  "  full  of  the  most  intense  surprise 
at  life,  while  Mother — JuHenne  was  her  name — 
lashed  the  air  vigorously  with  her  tail,  and  sprang 
lightly  from  table  to  chair,  and  from  chair  to  table 
in  her  anxiety  for  Baby.  After  a  good  deal  of  per- 
suasion Helen  was  induced  to  part  with  Methuselah  ; 
his  mother  seized  him  in  her  careful  mouth,  and 
he  was  soon  recovering  from  the  first  rude  shock  of 
his  twenty-four  hours'  existence. 

If  Baby  had  been  disturbed,  so  had  the  silent 
routine  of  the  shop.  Helen's  entrance  was  alto- 
gether like  a  whirlwind.  The  two  girls  industriously 
retouching  portraits  dropped  their  brushes,  a  third 
behind  the  counter  clutched  some  unmounted 
prints ;  I  could  almost  have  imagined  that  a  portly 
gentleman,  who  was  at  the  moment  transacting 
some  business,  seized  his  hat  with  both  hands  to 
prevent  it  from  blowing  away.  M.  Lozach,  the 
fussy  proprietor  in  spreading  black  bow  and  tor- 
toiseshell-rimmed  spectacles  dashed  from  his  room 


234  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

at  the  back ;  and  ten  minutes  later,  when  we  were 
safely  installed  as  lodgers  and  Helen  had  been  subtly- 
warned  by  our  landlord  not  to  do  it  again,  work 
was  on  the  point  of  nervously  recommencing. 

"  But  you  shouldn't  have  such  sweet  httle 
kittens,"  expostulated  Helen. 

"  Eh  hien,''  rephed  the  photographer,  "  we  can- 
not help  them.     Three  months  ago  it  was  a  black 

kitten ;  this  time  it  is  white,  one  speculates " 

and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Where  is  the  black?"  asked  Helen,  full  of 
expectation. 

"  In  the  Paradise  of  pussies,  Madame." 

This  was  a  crushing  blow,  but  it  had  the  advan- 
tage of  allowing  Helen  to  concentrate  all  her  ener- 
gies on  Methuselah.  Whether  Methuselah  fully 
appreciated  this  is  to  be  doubted.  At  first,  at  any 
rate,  he  was  very  much  in  the  dark  as  to  what 
it  was  that  seized  him  so  often  by  the  scruff  of  his 
neck,  whirled  him  through  the  air  and  deposited 
him  with  a  bump  on  a  substance  entirely  foreign  to 
his  experience.  Even  when  his  eyes  were  opened, 
and  he  was  able  to  follow  with  more  intelligence 
the  course  of  events,  he  expressed  no  actual  relish : 
his  miaowing  was  as  heart-rending  as  ever,  and 
Julienne's  anxiety  Httle  the  less.  But  it  seemed  as 
if  he  did  achieve  some  sort  of  familiarity  with 
Helen's  dress  :  his  struggles  became  less  frantic  and 
at  last  he  would  curl  up  in  a  lonely  kind  of  way  and 
try  to  sleep. 

Helen's  boisterous  entrance  into  M.  Lozach's 
shop,  however  much  it  was  resented  by  everyone 
present,  had  a  decisive  influence  upon  the  Ufe  of 
Methuselah.  For  up  to  that  moment  nobody, 
probably,  had  given  him  more  than  a  passing  glance 
— Julienne's  cunning  in  choosing  a  dark  cupboard 
had  assured  that.  But  as  soon  as  Helen  began  to 
fuss  over  the  kitten  he  became  the  pivotal  point 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  WATERSMEET     235 

around  which  the  entire  world  of  the  shop  moved. 
Lozach  himself,  his  cherubic  face  beaming  and  his 
hands  covered  in  chemicals,  would  run  at  intervals 
from  his  dark  room  or  the  bureau  to  "  have  a  chat 
with  le  p'tit  Mathusalem  " — ^the  "  chat "  consisting 
of  horrifying  gurgles  uttered  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
from  the  kitten's  ear — one  of  the  assistants  would 
tear  herself  away  from  work  to  utter  exclamations 
of  surprise  at  his  rapid  development ;  even  customers 
were  introduced  to  him  by  name. 

And  that  is  how  he  came  to  know  M.  Larousse. 

M.  Larousse,  as  an  important  man  at  the  Prefec- 
ture, was  a  person  of  considerable  social  standing 
and  was  at  times  painfully  aware  of  the  fact.  But 
at  others,  thank  goodness,  he  forgot  it,  and  when 
sufficiently  unbent  was  a  genuine  lover  of  animals. 
He  took  to  Methuselah  immediately,  put  him 
through  a  searching  examination  and  pronounced 
him  a  healthy  specimen. 

"  Tenez,'^  he  exclaimed.  "  I  suppose  he  will 
follow  his  black  brother  ?  " 

Now  M.  Lozach' s  heart  was  torn,  at  this  time, 
between  his  appreciation  of  domestic  arrangements 
— ^two  cats  are  apt  to  be  a  nuisance  about  the  house 
— and  a  growing  affection  for  this  latest  arrival. 
He  hedged  therefore. 

"  Perhaps  yes  ;  perhaps  no,"  he  replied.  "  One 
cannot  say." 

"It  is  a  pity  that  he  should,"  pursued  M. 
Larousse. 

"  Most  things  in  this  world  are  a  pity,"  replied 
the  photographer. 

The  next  day  Larousse  paid  another  visit. 

**  I  have  just  dropped  in  to  pay  my  respects  to 
Methuselah,"  he  said.  "  One  must  do  what  one  can 
for  the  dying." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Lozach,  plainly 
disturbed. 


236  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

"  You  told  me  you  were  going  to  drown  him.'* 

"  Did   I,   really  ?     Then   I    have    changed    my 
mind.     No,  I  am  not  going  to  drown  him." 
1^^^  "  Dites,    done  I "     exclaimed     Larousse     absent- 
mindedly. 

His  visits  after  this  became  regular,  which  was 
curious,  because  at  each  one  he  found  greater  and 
greater  fault  with  Methuselah.  The  kitten  he  had 
at  first  pronounced  so  healthy  seemed  to  be  dwind- 
ling and  fading  to  a  skeleton  before  our  eyes. 

"  One  may,  of  course,  always  make  a  mistake," 
he  pleaded  in  extenuation.  "  I  thought  him  good, 
but  he  has  disappointed  me.  His  mother  must  be 
unhealthy,  I  think." 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  moaned  Lozach,  "  since 
Larousse,  who  is  an  expert,  thinks  so  httle  of  him 
I  suppose  I  had  better  let  him  join  his  brother  in 
Paracfise."  And  he  began  to  gaze  long  and  shud- 
deringly  at  the  river. 

"  Are  you  determined  to  drown  him  ?  "  asked 
Helen  one  day,  fondling  Methuselah  in  her 
arms. 

"  Alas  !  yes,  Madame.  It  is  better  to  put  him 
out  of  his  misery." 

"  It  seems  almost  wicked.  He  is  such  a  dear 
little  thing." 

"  I  know  it,  Madame.  I  am  desolated  at  the 
thought." 

"  Listen,  M'sieur.  If  I  can  promise  him  a  good 
home,  will  you  let  me  have  him  ?  " 

"  But  is  it  in  his  own  interest  to  let  him  go  on 
Uving  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  all  that  is  possible  for  him.  Please, 
M.  Lozach,  sell  him  to  me." 

"  For  what,  Madame  ?  " 

"  What  you  wiU." 

"  Five  francs  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  bargain." 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  WATERSMEET      237 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  what  do  you 
want  a  cat  for,  my  dear  girl  ?  " 

Helen's  only  reply  was  a  violent  kick  on  my 
ankle.  Without  further  comment  I  paid  the  five 
francs. 

Methuselah  now  lives  a  sleek  life  in  M.  Larousse's 
home,  with  M.  Lozach  none  the  wiser.  But  I'm 
surprised  at  Helen  lending  herself  to  such  deception. 

in 

Claire  Delahaye  hated  the  Germans  with  a  concen- 
trated passion  that  was  the  fuel  of  her  life.  It  is 
Uttle  to  be  wondered  at. 

Imagine  a  woman,  refined,  gentle,  in  easy  cir- 
cumstances, accustomed  since  her  childhood  to  a 
wide  circle  of  congenial  companionship,  suddenly 
robbed  of  everyone  she  held  dear  by  the  hand  of 
the  hereditary  enemy,  and  you  have  a  picture  of 
Claire  Delahaye,  ddbitante,  of  Quimper,  the  only 
survivor  of  her  family  after  the  Great  War. 

Her  loss  had  been  catastrophic.  Husband  and 
two  brothers  had  been  killed  at  the  front ;  father 
had  been  blown  to  pieces  by  a  bomb  in  Paris  and 
mother  had  died  from  shock ;  her  little  son,  born 
soon  after  the  war  had  commenced,  overshadowed 
from  the  first  by  tragedy,  deprivation  and  semi- 
starvation,  terminated  his  little  existence  on 
Armistice  Day.  Throughout  the  four  years  of  slaugh- 
ter friend  after  friend  had  "  gone  west,"  and 
Claire's  closest  confidante,  unable  to  stand  the 
strain  of  such  times,  was  now  in  an  asylum.  Claire 
herself  had  ruined  her  health  as  an  Army  nurse. 
The  family  resources,  invested  largely  in  Russian 
securities,  had  dwindled  almost  to  nothing,  with 
but  remote  probability  of  recovery. 

Written  thus  baldly,  the  series  is  complete  enough, 
but  Claire,  by  an  heroic  effort  of  will,  could  have 
recovered  something  of  her  composure :  it  was  the 


1^ 


238  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

final  blow — ^that  of  having  to  degrade  herseK  to  a 
ddbitante,  and  if  not  actually  serving  behind  the 
counter  at  least  spend  her  days  in  the  shop — 
which  turned  her  from  a  tired  and  stricken  woman 
into  a  virago.  Her  pride,  not  for  herself  but  for 
her  family,  was  shattered ;  and  out  of  her  debase- 
ment there  flamed  a  scorching  hatred  of  those  whom, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  she  conceived  to  be  the  authors 
of  her  misfortunes.  No  one  could  enter  into  a  con- 
versation with  her  without  having  to  hear  a  tor- 
rent of  invective  against  Germany  ;  every  action  she 
performed  was  inspired  by  vindictive  hate ;  she 
had  no  mercy  for  any  moderating  influence  in  in- 
ternational affairs,  despised  England,  and  when 
she  discovered  our  nationality,  shut  the  door  in 
our  faces.  The  greatest  pleasure  of  her  life,  she 
openly  declared,  would  be  to  see  rows  of  Germans 
shot  down  by  machine  guns,  or  because  that  would 
be  too  easy  a  death,  left  herded  in  stinking  pens 
to  starve.  Any  French  soldier  who  entered  her 
Debit  de  Vins  was  sure  of  a  welcome,  as  much 
free  drink  as  he  could  swallow  and  a  fervent  ex- 
hortation to  allow  nothing  to  stand  in  his  way  of 
punishing  "  les  sales  betes  "  if  chance  should  bring 
him  into  contact  with  them. 

Nothing  enraged  Claire  more  than  when  I  once 
described  Germany  as  "  oiu-  late  enemy." 

"  It  is  false  !  "  she  cried  shrilly.  "  They  have  been 
our  enemies  for  fifty  years — did  not  my  father  fight 
them  ?  They  are  our  enemies  now,  waiting  like 
tigers  to  spring  upon  us  as  soon  as  they  see  their 
opportunity.  They  must  be  crushed — ^utterly 
crushed  out  of  existence,  the  robbers.  .  .  . 

"You  English — "  pointing  an  accusing  finger 
at  me — "  you  boasted  your  way  through  the  war, 
and  now,  mon  Dieu,  you  want  to  make  friends  with 
them  because,  you  say,  it  is  good  for  trade.  As  if 
there  was  nothing  in  the  world  but  trade  and  busi- 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  WATERSMEET      239 

ness  and  money  !  Despicable  creatures  that  you 
are  !  Do  you  not  know  what  it  is  to  hate  with 
your  whole  mind  and  your  whole  soul,  so  that 
money  and  trade  and  affairs  are  nothing — ^nothing  ! 
— so  that  the  very  name  of  Germany  stinks  in  your 
nostrils  and  your  children's  nostrils  for  ever — so 
that  you  are  consumed  and  burned  up  with  hatred 
of  those  who  killed  your  menfolk  by  treachery 
and  spying  and  torture  ? — ^yes,  and  your  women- 
folk too.  Do  you  cold-blooded  English  know  what 
it  is  to  hate  like  that,  or  are  your  low  minds  think- 
ing only  about  your  pounds,  and  your  stocks  and 
shares,  and  your  markets  ?  " 

"  Some  of  us,"  I  replied,  "  know  what  it  is 
to  hate." 

"  You  lie !  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  traitors  and 
renegades,  you  English,  playing  a  dirty  game — 
thinking  only  of  your  own  interests.  You  do  not 
hate." 

"  It  is  war  that  we  hate,"  I  said,  "  and  we  hate 
it  with  all  the  loathing  one  has  for  a  foul  disease." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  war  ?  Were  your  homes 
ruined,  and  your  fields  pillaged ;  your  old  men  shot 
down,  and  your  young  women  outraged  ?  " 

"  You  in  France  have  a  better  reason  to  hate  it, 
Madame,"  I  answered,  "  and  your  children  the 
best  reason  of  all." 

"  And  those  that  made  it — ^your  friends,  the 
Germans." 

"  Not  my  friends,"  I  retorted.  "  I  spent  four 
years  fighting  them." 

"  Get  outside — quick — before  I  put  you  out — 
you  Englishman ! "  cried  Claire,  trembling  with 
passion.  It  was  then  that  she  slammed  the  door 
after  us,  and  through  its  glass  panels  we  could  see 
her  return  to  her  desk  and  break  into  a  torrent  of 
sobbing. 

Claire  Delahaye  had  grounds  for  her  hatred  such 


240  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

as  we  in  England  will  never  fully  understand.  But 
can  Europe  afford  these  melancholy  luxuries  ? 

IV 

The  cry  of  fire  is  one  of  the  most  stirring  that  can 
be  heard  when  uttered  by  strong  men  in  alarm. 
It  was  four  o'clock  on  a  drizzling  morning  when  the 
half-dozen  cried  it  along  the  streets  of  Quimper. 

Lights  appeared  at  the  windows  of  houses  :  ques- 
tions were  shouted  and  hurriedly  answered :  more 
men  were  heard  passing  to  and  fro,  and  still  more 
men  :  at  the  barracks  opposite,  the  bugle  sounded  ; 
and  gradually  there  spread  along  the  roofs  and  up 
the  church  tower  the  Hght  of  fire.  Within  ten 
minutes  of  the  alarm  the  spire  stood  out  as  clearly  as 
in  daylight. 

Four  o'clock  is  not  a  convenient  time  to  rise,  but 
there  is  something  elemental  about  a  fire  which  dis- 
pels all  thought  of  sleep.  Besides,  the  burning 
building  was  only  a  few  yards  away  and  the  light 
breeze  was  blowing  the  sparks  alarmingly  in  our 
direction.  As  we  slipped  on  our  clothes  the  tramp 
of  the  fire-picket  from  the  barracks  and  the  hurried 
passing  of  appliances  somewhat  restored  confi- 
dence. We  gathered  together  our  few  worldly 
goods,  and  descended  sheepishly  into  the  road. 

The  roof  where  the  fire  had  originated  was,  by 
this  time,  a  mass  of  flame  and  by  its  light  the  house- 
hold goods,  or  such  as  could  be  snatched,  were 
being  dumped  in  the  small  square  in  front.  A 
sleepy  crowd  had  been  attracted  to  the  scene  and 
were  held  at  a  safe  distance  by  a  dozen  soldiers 
with  fixed  bayonets — ^which  was  caution  indeed 
when  one  realised  that  the  crowd  wasn't  awake 
enough  to  be  excited.  Meanwhile  a  fierce  argument 
was  in  progress  between  the  Commandant  of  the 
Town  Fire  Brigade,  the  Commandant  of  the  Rail- 
way Fire  Brigade,  and  the  Subaltern  who  commanded 


IN  THE  CITY  OP  WATERSMEET      241 

the  Military  Fire  Picket.  Their  respective  helmets 
twinkled  and  flashed  in  the  hght  of  the  flames  as  they 
gesticulated  amongst  themselves. 

"  I  should  take  charge  of  the  whole  affair," 
argued  the  Subaltern,  secure  in  the  pre-eminence 
of  the  mihtary  status  in  France. 

"In  a  military  fire,  yes,"  replied  the  Com- 
mandant of  the  Town  Brigade,  "  but  this  is  a  civil 
outbreak  and,  therefore,  my  affair." 

"  But  one  of  the  lodgers  works  on  the  railway," 
expostulated  the  Railway  Brigade  Commander. 
"  I  must  look  after  his  goods."  His  retirement  was 
almost  due,  and  he  wanted  to  make  the  most  of 
what  might  be  a  last  chance. 

The  Subaltern,  however,  was  stiff-necked ;  the 
Town  Brigade  man  stuck  to  his  point ;  only  the 
Railway  Brigade  Commandant  seemed  to  be  out  of 
the  running.  The  argument  increased  in  vehe- 
mence ;  the  men  themselves,  who  had  all  this 
while  been  standing  by  smoking  cigarettes,  began  to 
feel  that  they  were  called  upon  to  take  part.  One 
felt  the  situation  might  develop  :  when  two  events, 
one  after  another,  altered  the  course  of  things. 

The  roof  fell  in.  /   . 

The  August  Personage  arrived. 

The  immediate  consequence  of  the  former  was 
that  the  top  storey  began  to  blaze;  of  the  latter 
that  the  argument  was  subdued.  The  August 
Personage,  after  hearing  the  case  put  forward  by 
each  of  the  three  parties,  decided  to  take  charge 
himself. 

The  fire  seemed  to  realise  something  was  about 
to  happen,  for  it  blazed  with  increased  fury.  The 
August  Personage  took  off  his  coat. 

"  To  begin  with,"  he  said,  "  we  must  have  a  hose 
and  quite  a  lot  of  water." 

A  hydrant  was  found  at  last  and  the  stand-pipe 
of  the  hose  adjusted.     But  the  couplings  had  been 

Q 


V 


242  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

so  highly  polished  for  a  recent  inspection  that  they 
slipped  and,  moreover,  nobody  seemed  absolutely 
certain  how  they  fitted. 

"  I  think  it's  like  this,"  said  one  fireman,  gal- 
vanised at  last  into  activity. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  repHed  his  companion.  "  I 
remember  doing  it  like  this,  rather." 

"  Well,  I've  been  to  a  fire  since  you,  so  I  ought 
to  know  better." 

"  When  was  that  .  .  .  ?  " 

Somehow  the  couplings  were  joined,  and  squads 
of  men  worked  on  the  pumps  like  maniacs.  No- 
thing resulted. 

From  the  rear  of  the  building,  however,  appeared 
a  feeble  squirt  of  water,  which  missed  the  seat  of 
the  fire,  but  drenched  the  pumpers  in  the  square. 
A  message  was  quickly  sent  round  to  stop  it. 

As  the  result  of  five  minutes'  assiduous  ejffort,  a 
jet  was  at  last  started  from  the  front,  which  just 
reached  the  first  floor  (hitherto  undamaged).  A 
few  minutes  later,  a  second — ^but  the  fire  only  won- 
dered who  was  tickling  it  and  blazed  the  more  merrily. 
Then  the  August  Personage  had  his  inspiration. 

"  A  chain  !  "  he  cried.  "  We  will  have  a  chain  of 
buckets." 

Obedient  to  his  command,  gendarmes  made 
sudden  raids  into  the  crowd  bringing  back  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck  such  young  men  as  had  not  man- 
aged to  escape  them.  With  the  help  of  these 
"volunteers,"  a  chain  was  made  between  a  canal 
near-by  and  the  pumps.  Buckets  passed  along  .  .  . 
the  fire  began  at  last  to  feel  uncomfortable  .  .  . 
half  a  dozen  hose-pipes  were  working  furiously  .  .  . 
men  were  sweating  and  cursing  ...  as  the  morn- 
ing broke,  the  fire  gave  up  the  ghost. 

"  Among  those  present,"  we  read  next  day  in  the 
local  paper,  "  were  the  '  August  Personage,'  who, 
by  his  promptness,  diverted  a  greater  catastrophe ; 


IN  THE  CITY  OF  WATERSMEET      243 

the  Colonel  and  Officers  of  the  —  Infantry;  the 
Prefect ;  the  Inspector  of  Departmental  Police,  in 
whose  hands  order  was  perfectly  kept ;  the  Inspector 
of  Town  Police ;  the  Inspector  of  Railway  Police ; 
the  Military  Picket ;  the  Town  Fire  Brigade ;  and  the 
Railway  Fire  Brigade." 

We   had  unwittingly   been   present   at   a   social 
function ! 


V 


XXI 

THE   CRIME   OF   AJMELIE   LE    COIC 

There  had  been  no  end  of  a  commotion  in  the 
remote  Httle  village  of  Hanvec,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Brest,  because  Amehe  le  Coic  wanted  to  marry  a 
tailor. 

And  why  shouldn't  she  ?  There  seems  no  more 
reason  for  fuss  than  if  she  had  wanted  to  marry  a 
soldier,  sailor,  tinker,  or  anybody  else  in  the  list 
down  to  the  candlestick-maker.  Think  over  such 
of  your  friends  as  are  tailors  and  see  whether  they 
are  not  harmless  inoffensive  little  men  whose  sharpest 
point  is  in  the  pins  in  the  bottom  of  their  waistcoat 
and  whose  only  objectionable  habit  is  that  of  rub- 
bing chalk  down  the  back  of  your  shoulder  blades 
(which  is  all  for  your  own  good).  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  to  require  a  clever  man  to  keep  up 
his  end  of  perfunctory  conversation  with  a  mouth 
full  of  pins  and  a  head  full  of  measurements.  And, 
in  the  domestic  sphere,  do  tailors  make  bad  hus- 
bands ? — a  subject  which  might  well  be  debated 
in  the  daily  or  weekly  Press. 

But  there  was  no  Press  in  Hanvec  to  air  the  pros 
and  cons  :  that  was  done  with  sufficient  thorough- 
ness by  the  village  itself.  For  marriage  with  a 
tailor  was  a  thing  unheard  of  in  Brittany  and 
to  place  tailors  in  a  class  apart  is  still  the  tradi- 
tion in  the  remoter  districts  of  the  province.  In 
Hanvec  the  scandal  waxed  for  two  months  before 
the  old  women,  baffled  by  the  ingenuity  of  Amelie, 


THE  CRIME  OF  AMELIE  LE  COIC     245 

gradually  let  it  drop,  muttering  into  their  toothless 
jaws  that  no  good  could  come  of  such  a  match. 
But  Amelie  tossed  her  head  and  laughed. 

Yet  if  she  was  dealing  a  blow  at  fast  fading  tradi- 
tion, Yves  Yvenec,  the  other  party  to  the  scandal, 
had  already  struck  the  first.  It  is  true  that  he  still 
made  his  regular  rounds  of  the  farm  houses  on 
horseback,  wearing  his  black  velvet  hat,  short 
jacket  with  velvet  facings  and  occasionally  his 
resplendent  red  and  yellow  embroidered  waistcoat. 
But  he  did  this,  avowedly,  because  they  brought 
custom  among  the  conservative  elements  of  the 
countryside  and  not  because  he  favoured  their 
general  use :  when  he  returned  to  his  workshop  in 
LaHderneau  he  would  cast  them  gratefully  into  a  ^^ 

corner  and  hurl  imprecations  after  them,  laugh 
quietly  to  himself  at  his  own  folly,  tuck  up  his 
sleeves  and  settle  down  to  work.  His  open  de- 
fiance of  tradition  was  in  refusing  to  follow  the 
practice  whereby  the  village  tailor  is  the  professional 
proposer  of  marriage,  acting  on  behalf  of  the  lover 
by  serenading  his  choice  outside  her  window,  offer- 
ing her  a  sprig  of  genista,  and  then  making  the 
formal  declaration  of  love.  Yves  declared  that 
the  lover  who  resorted  to  a  professional  mediator 
was  not  worthy  to  be  the  husband  of  any  girl,  and 
described  the  whole  business  as  tomfoolery. 

But  when,  being  as  other  men,  Yves  desired  to 
take  unto  himself  a  wife,  he  found  tradition  a  soUd 
wall  to  bar  his  progress.  To  the  countryside  he  was 
a  tailor  rather  than  a  man ;  or  at  best  a  tailor  as 
well  as  a  man,  one  whose  professional  duties 
brought  him  into  close  contact  with  both  men  and 
women.  And  how,  argued  tradition,  could  anyone, 
who  had  constantly  to  make  women's  as  well  as 
men's  clothes,  and  who  was  forced  to  measure 
women's  as  well  as  men's  bodies,  keep  his  mind  true 
to    one    woman  ?     Besides,    traveUing    as    he    did 


i/' 


i 


246  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

from  farm  to  farm,  every  item  of  scandal  and  gossip 
could  not  fail  to  reach  him,  would  doubtless  be 
passed  on  to  his  wife  and  make  her  dangerous 
even  among  her  own  sex.  Tradition  put  its  foot 
down  firmly :  Yves  and  such  as  he  must  remain 
single. 

Only  AmeUe  thought  differently :  she  was  ready 
to  beheve  that  a  man  could  be  true  to  his  wife  even 
if  tailor  he  be,  that  his  talk  need  not  consist  only  of 
scandal,  in  short  that  he  was  man  first  and  tailor 
second.  She  was  a  fool,  said  Hanvec  :  tradition 
was  not  invented  in  a  day,  but  had  grown  up  out  of 
generations  of  experience.  To  which  Amelie 
answered  that  her  experience,  too,  would  influence 
tradition.  She  did  not  boast  of  the  risks  she  was 
taking,  but  quietly  accepted  them :  if  things  turned 
out  all  right  she  would  be  able  to  go  on  laughing  at 
the  croaking  wiseacres,  if  not — well,  it  would  not 
be  because  Yves  was  a  tailor :  all  marriage  was  a 
lottery. 

As  the  day  approached  the  odds  wavered  some- 
what :  there  had  been  such  imanimity  in  the  village 
discussion,  either  that  the  match  would  turn  out 
disastrously  or  be  broken  off  at  the  last  minute, 
that  they  could  not,  as  it  were,  keep  up  the  steep 
price  at  which  they  had  started.  A  Uttle  doubt 
crept  in  as  to  whether  the  favourite  was  all  he  was 
thought  to  be  :  whether  the  other  horse  hadn't  a 
faint  chance  of  a  place. 

"  They're  running  in  the  face  of  Providence," 
declared  Mother  Sadout  emphatically,  "  you'll  live 
to  see  their  downfall." 

*'  Maybe,"  agreed  Mother  Huet. 

"  There's  no  marriage  with  a  tailor  that's  turned 
out  well  yet,"  continued  Mother  Sadout. 

"  Maybe,"  repeated  Mother  Huet,  "  but  I  don't 
remember  such  a  one  myself." 

*'  Well,  you  know  well  enough  without  thinking. 


THE  CRIME  OF  AMELIE  LE  COIC     247 

It's  a  thing  you  can  be  sure  of,  with  tailors  as  they 
are." 

"  Can  you  ?  "  queried  Mother  Huet. 

"  Of  course  you  can." 

"Maybe."  But  Mother  Huet  was  not  quite 
convinced. 

"  I  don't  pity  either  of  them,"  went  on  Mother 
Sadout  vigorously,  in  spite  of  her  seventy-eight 
years,  "  if  she  were  my  daughter  I'd  forbid  it." 

"  Ah,  but  children  aren't  what  they  used  to  be," 
wailed  Mother  Huet. 

"  She  shouldn't  marry  him,  anyway." 

"  Maybe."     Mother  Huet  was  still  less  convinced. 

Mother  Huet's  "  maybe "  represented  the  ad- 
vanced element  in  Hanvec,  and  it  was  to  her  side 
that  recruits  came.  Even  Mother  Sadout's  em- 
phatic certainty  became  weaker  as  the  fulfilment  of 
her  first  prognostication — ^that  of  the  breaking  off 
of  the  match — was  delayed ;  but  she  concentrated 
with  all  the  more  vigour  on  her  prophecy  of  disaster 
to  the  couple.  She  recalled,  out  of  her  many  memories, 
the  confused  recollection  of  having  heard  from  a 
friend  about  a  girl  who  had  married  a  tailor  and 
who  had  been  deserted  by  him — and  this  evidence 
was  accepted  by  her  party  as  conclusive.  Papa 
Rosnic,  who  claimed  to  be  the  village's  oldest 
inhabitant,  remembered  another  case — or,  on 
second  thoughts,  was  it  the  same  ?  At  any  rate, 
the  consequences  had  been  similar ;  and  who  would 
be  bold  enough  to  say  that  history  would  not  re- 
peat itself  ?  Not  he,  nor  Mother  Sadout,  nor 
even,  in  any  definite  manner.  Mother  Huet.  The 
most  that  could  be  done  was  to  watch. 

Day  by  day,  however,  Mother  Huet's  camp 
grew  in  strength.  With  the  exception  of  a  few 
irreconcilables,  the  whole  village  grew  to  famiharity 
with  the  watchword  "  Maybe." 

Then  came  the  news  which  struck  consternation 


s^^ 


248  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

into  the  hearts  of  both  sides  :  it  was  the  biggest 
blow  that  had  yet  fallen.  I  heard  it  from  the 
lips  of  Papa  Rosnic  himself. 

He  was  leaning  over  his  gate,  muttering  and 
gesticulating  like  one  bereft  of  reason.  His  pipe, 
which  had  been  forgotten,  waggled  up  and  down  in 
his  mouth  and  his  wrinkled  forehead  was  beaded 
with  sweat.     Both  hands  worked  convulsively. 

"  Have  you  heard  ?  "  he  cried  as  I  approached. 
"  The  hussy  that  she  is  !  " 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  What's  the  matter  !  You  haven't  heard  then  ? 
I  can't  understand  it  at  all — ^why  she  consented  to 
it.     Not  being  content  with  one  scandal.  ..." 

"  I  don't  follow  you,"  I  interrupted. 

"  Of  course  you  don't.  Well  then,  it's  this.  The 
le  Coic  girl  says  she  won't  have  anybody  to  her 
wedding  who  isn't  necessary.  She  isn't  going  to  have 
a  feast  or  a  dance  or  anything  of  that  sort.  She 
says  she's  tired  of  us  all  and  wants  to  get  her 
wedding  over  quietly." 

Mother  Sadout  came  up,  winded  but  indignant. 

"  Amelie  is  a  little  cat,"  she  wheezed,  "  she  thinks 
she's  clever.  But  I  don't  mind,  not  me !  I've 
seen  plenty  of  weddings  in  my  time,  I  have,  and 
better  ones  than  Amelie's." 

"  It  does  seem  a  pity  though,"  chimed  in  Mother 
Huet,  "  it's  so  nice  to  watch,  is  a  wedding." 

"  It's  the  last  straw,"  snorted  Mother  Sadout. 
"  I  always  said  it'll  turn  out  badly  ;  now  I  mean  it." 

Amehe,  in  response  to  all  this  contumely, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  wearily. 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  please  people,"  she  said. 
"  I  thought  that  as  you  were  so  shocked  at  my 
marrying  a  tailor  you'd  at  least  appreciate  my 
keeping  it  quiet." 

But  tradition  isn't  as  simple  an  affair  as  that. 


XXII 

KERGOSIEN   THE  BUTCHER 


MoRLAix  isn't  a  town :  it's  a  viaduct.  It  joins 
two  hills ;  it  joins  many  centuries.  Old  heavy- 
wheeled  carts  lumber  through  its  streets  ;  scream- 
ing trains,  two  hundred  feet  up  in  the  air,  dash 
across  its  enormous  bridge.  Paris  and  London 
fashions  are  well  represented ;  so  are  the  fashions 
of  Breton  tradition.  Had  Morlaix,  by  any  chance, 
forgotten  to  chose  a  coat  of  arms,  I  would  blazon  one 
for  it : — vert  (for  that  is  the  colour  of  the  hills  and  i/ 
countryside) ;  a  Breton  hat,  proper ;  a  motor  car 

rampant ;  over  all,  a  viaduct,  or If  such  a  shield 

does  not  comply  with  the  tenets  of  heraldry  (and 
I  am  told  it  does  not)  it  still  describes  all  one  needs 
to  know  about  Morlaix. 

Morlaix  is  a  place  one  visits,  not  to  see,  but  to  pass 
through :  paradoxically  it  is  called  a  "  centre." 
The  towns  and  scenery  in  its  district  are  considered 
to  be  of  greater  interest  than  Morlaix  itseK,  so 
one  devotes  a  couple  of  hours  and  a  spare  evening 
to  looking  at  what  lies  immediately  in  front  of  one, 
and  many  days  in  chasing  the  elusive  sprite  of  the 
picturesque.  One  has  to  travel  outside  to  find  that 
Morlaix  itself  is  worth  seeing.  Again  the  viaduct 
with  its  double  track  is  descriptive. 

You  can't  get  away  from  it.  It  is  a  bigger  thing 
than  any  of  the  church  spires  :  it  overawes  the  town 
with  a  domination  of  the  material  against  which 


250  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

they  protest  in  vain.  The  old  houses,  of  which 
there  are  some  fine  specimens  in  Morlaix,  count  as 
nothing  beside  it :  it  is  modern  and  useful  while 
they  are  out  of  date  and  exist  on  suffrance.  It  is 
the  symbol  of  a  Brittany,  divested  of  its  conservatism 
and  reaction,  its  poverty  and  pride,  opening  its 
treasures  to  the  outside  world  and  saying  "  I  am 
worth  looking  at.  Enter."  The  trains,  snorting 
and  screaming  their  way  across,  wake  the  sleepy 
town  at  night  and  during  the  day  drown  the  rattle 
of  the  country  market  carts  on  the  cobblestones. 
They  are,  as  it  were,  bearing  the  strangers  over  the 
chasm  that  once  separated  Brittany  from  the  rest  of 
France,  so  close  a  corporation  was  she.  They  cross 
the  viaduct,  and  then  the  tourists  make  their  ex- 
cursions into  the  countryside,  take  their  snapshots, 
write  their  picture  postcards  and  move  on  without 
suspecting  that  within  a  dozen  yards  of  the  station 
they  were  face  to  face  with  the  most  significant  fact 
that  the  whole  district  had  to  offer. 
Morlaix  isn't  a  town  :  it's  a  viaduct. 

n 

This  is  to  celebrate  an  Englishman  who,  while  in  the 
wrong,  was  tremendously  in  the  right.  He  knocked 
a  man  down  for  being  less  than  a  man.  It  was  not 
until  later  that  I  learned  the  Englishman's  name, 
for  he  was  led  away  between  two  gendarmes.  This 
is  how  it  happened. 

Saturday  is  market  day  in  Morlaix  and  Kergosien 
(that  at  least  was  the  name  on  the  cart)  had  done 
well  in  securing  five  well-reared  fat  calves.  Ker- 
gosien was  a  butcher  ;  and  looked  it. 

He  tied  the  feet  of  the  poor  brutes  together  and 
slung  them  into  the  back  of  the  cart,  while  he  went 
to  fill  his  own  belly  with  cider.  It  was  a  hot  day, 
and  he  wanted  it — quite  a  lot,  in  fact,  before  his 
thirst  was  quenched — ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to 


KERGOSIEN  THE  BUTCHER  251 

him  that  the  calves  he  had  left  in  the  glaring  sun 
might  be  equally  hot  and  thirsty,  and  that  they  had 
no  cider,  not  even  water.  They  had  nothing  to  do 
except  to  gaze,  head  downward,  over  the  tail- 
board, and  to  utter  occasional  plaintive  mooings, 
varied  with  ineffectual  struggles  to  free  their  legs : 
one  does  not  obtain  a  very  kindly  view  of  life  when 
one's  head  is  below  the  level  of  one's  tethered  feet. 
But  what  did  that  matter  anyhow  :  they  were  going 
to  be  killed  in  a  few  hours. 

Kergosien  met  some  old  friends  in  the  buvette, 
and  had  naturally  much  to  tell  them.  His  nar- 
ration became  so  long-winded  and  his  thirst  so 
fiery  that  he  did  not  notice  the  passage  of  the 
hours,  and  it  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  be- 
fore he  suddenly  remembered  that  his  horse  had 
not  been  watered.  He  rose  unsteadily,  begged  a 
pail,  which  he  filled  at  the  street  pump,  and  gave 
his  horse  to  drink :  he  was  still  sober  enough  to 
know  that  if  anything  happened  to  Jacques  he 
would  have  to  pay  a  stiff  price  to  replace  him  (You 
wouldn't  have  thought  so  to  see  him  :  but  Ker- 
gosien knew  better)  and  that  he  must,  therefore, 
be  looked  after. 

When  Jacques  at  last  lifted  a  grateful  head  from 
the  bucket,  his  master,  instead  of  throwing  away  the 
remainder,  carelessly  placed  it  on  a  high  stone  by 
the  tail-board  of  the  cart  before  kicking  a  stray  cat 
and  returning  to  his  refreshment.  The  smell  of 
water  was  sweet  in  the  dilated  nostrils  of  the  nearest 
caH  :  a  human  being,  much  less  an  animal,  could 
not  have  withstood  the  temptation.  There  was  a 
desperate  struggle  in  the  cart  .  .  .  and  the  bucket 
fell  with  a  crash. 

Kergosien,  rushing  from  the  buvette,  took  in  the 
situation  on  the  instant :  the  agony  of  the  calf 
alone  would  have  told  him.  He  raised  his  whip, 
and   brought  it   down  fiercely  upon  the  helpless 


252  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

animal.  He  repeated  the  blow  and  still  the  whip 
was  raised.  The  calf  cried  and  struggled,  but 
Kergosien  was  seeing  red. 

Two  gendarmes  looked  on  apathetically.  .  .  . 

Nobody  knew  exactly  where  the  Englishman 
came  from  :  he  appeared  as  an  angel  might  suddenly 
appear  out  of  nowhere.  But,  unUke  an  angel,  he 
was  almost  foaming  at  the  mouth  with  rage. 

"  You  cad,"  he  cried  to  Kergosien. 

Kergosien  did  not  understand  in  the  least  what 
he  was  talking  about,  but  there  was  no  mistaking 
his  expression.  The  butcher  thought  it  well  to  stay 
his  hand. 

But  the  Englishman  seized  the  whip. 

"  You  swine  !  "  he  said  to  him :  the  wrath  was 
gone  now,  and  a  calm,  which  seemed  to  the  excit- 
able French  crowd  even  more  dangerous,  had  taken 
its  place.  He  might  have  been  holding  a  confiden- 
tial talk  with  Kergosien  from  the  quiet  way  in 
which  he  uttered  the  words. 

Then  recollecting  his  situation,  he  tried  to  ex- 
press himself  in  bad  French,  but  contemptuously 
throwing  it  aside,  broke  out  again  in  EngHsh. 

"  I'll  teach  you  to  do  that  sort  of  thing,  you 
damned  cur,"  he  said  in  his  quiet  voice.  "  I'm 
going  to  give  you  the  biggest  thrashing  you  ever  had 
in  your  life." 

The  surrounding  crowd  deemed  it  well  to  keep  at 
a  safe  distance :  the  EngHshman,  tearing  off  the 
lash  of  the  whip,  brought  the  stick  down  on  Ker- 
gosien's  back  with  such  force  that  the  accumulated 
dust  of  Brittany  high  roads  rose  Hke  a  cloud  into 
the  air. 

Kergosien  was  no  fool  and  was,  moreover,  furious 
at  such  interference  with  his  rights  as  a  free  citizen 
of  France :  weren't  the  calves  his  to  do  what  he 
liked  with  ?  His  silence,  hitherto,  had  been  due 
solely  to  the  fact  that  he  couldn't  make  out  what 


KERGOSIEN  THE  BUTCHER  253 

all  the  fuss  was  about :  but  a  blow  is  a  blow.  He 
landed  a  straight  one  at  the  Englishman's  chest. 

The  Englishman  dropped  the  whip,  estimated 
his  distance  for  a  fraction  of  a  second — and  Ker- 
gosien's  seventeen  stone  was  lying  its  bulky  length 
beneath  the  cart  and  the  calves. 

The  Englishman  turned  on  his  heel,  but  as  the 
crowd  fell  back  the  two  gendarmes,  spying  from  their 
safe  corner  that  damage  had  been  done  to  a  French 
subject,  bustled  up.  A  long  colloquy  ensued  most 
of  which  was  inaudible :  I  heard  the  words  "  if 
Monsieur  will  accompany  us "  ;  the  EngHshman 
nodded  and  the  Httle  party  of  three,  followed  by 
the  curious  crowd,  turned  the  corner. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  nobody  was  sufficiently 
interested  to  look  after  Kergosien.  He  just  lay 
there  .  .  .  and  for  all  I  care  he  may  be  lying  there 
still. 

ni 

It  was  in  Morlaix  that  the  little  cafe  waiter 
delivered  his  epigram.  "  What  is  wrong  with 
France  is  that  one  is  allowed  too  much  personal 
liberty." 

Thinking  of  Kergosien  and  the  calves,  of  various 
unseemly  fights  for  tickets  at  booking-offices,  of 
the  vision  of  a  beautiful  lady  in  a  fashionable  hotel 
picking  a  flea  from  her  arm  and  letting  it  drop 
casually  to  the  floor,  of  other  and  more  repulsive 
incidents  which  passed  without  the  least  protest 
from  the  Frenchmen  who  witnessed  them,  I 
agreed. 

"  It  is  the  ruin  of  France,"  I  said.  "  You  are 
the  most  charming  nation  in  the  world,  and  among 
civihsed  peoples  the  most  uncouth  and  undisciplined. 
What  on  earth  does  your  conscription  teach 
you  ?  " 

In   the    distance    came    the   sound   of    artillery 


254  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

proclaiming  the  opening  of  a  fete.  I  remembered 
the  bayonets  and  sentries  at  the  fire  in  Quimper. 

Perhaps  I  knew  the  answer  before  I  put  the 
question. 

IV 

In  St.  Pol  de  Leon  you  leave  Brittany  altogether 
and  return  to  an  English  cathedral  town.  Amid 
its  dignified  eighteenth  century  houses  with  their 
restful  walled  gardens  and  their  charming  vistas 
and  glimpses  of  the  twin  towers  of  the  old  cathedral, 
you  breathe  the  out-of-the-world  atmosphere  which 
belongs  to  Ely  and  Wells.  Or  you  half  expect  to 
find  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  an  English  public 
school.  .  .  . 

Though  when  you  look  at  the  tall,  almost  top- 
heavy  tower  of  the  Chapelle  du  Kreisker,  you 
imagine  yourself  in  Flanders,  and  wait  in  vain  for 
the  chiming  of  the  carillon.  Wherever  you  go,  in 
the  surrounding  country  or  from  the  sea,  the  tower 
stands  out  conspicuously  :  in  the  middle  of  a  plain 
it  seems  a  ladder  cHmbing  to  Heaven. 

All  the  more  so  because,  just  as  the  theologians 
would  have  us  beheve,  the  earth  from  which  it 
climbs  is  a  very  dirty  earth.  All  the  charm  of  St. 
Pol  de  Leon  is  spoiled  by  the  slackness  of  the  muni- 
cipal authorities.  Flies  abound  in  swarms — ^they 
descend  on  you  Hke  the  falling  of  a  black  wall, 
devour  your  food  and  person  in  numbers  impossible 
to  estimate.  There  are  other  things  too — and 
more  of  them  than  Noah  took  with  him  officially 
into  the  Ark. 

They  have,  of  course,  a  market  in  St.  Pol  de  Leon. 
It  is  held  on  Tuesday,  and  you  may  find,  on  the 
following  Sunday,  its  refuse  and  dirt  still  littering 
the  streets  and  choking  the  gutters,  blowing  into 
your  face,  and  filtering  through  the  air  on  to  your 
food,  a  very  haven  for  flies  and  such  as  they.     The 


KERGOSIEN  THE  BUTCHER  255 

market  is  only  one  of  the  backsliders,  the  other 
.  .  .  Well,  if  I  had  a  municipal  vote  in  St.  Pol  de 
Leon,  I  know  how  I  should  use  it. 

But  nobody  seems  to  mind — nobody  grumbles 
at  the  refuse  and  the  flies  and  the  other  "  incon- 
veniences." They  take  them  all  in  the  spirit  of 
fatalism  which  one  observes  throughout  Brittany 
— ^the  fatalism  which  keeps  it  poor,  which  makes 
it,  as  far  as  one  can  judge,  the  most  drunken  pro- 
vince in  France,  which  kills,  or  appears  to  kill,  , 
Initiative  and  progress  and  even  "  the  will  to  do."  | 
One  works  because  one  has  to  work — and  it  matters 
very  little  how  one  works  or  what  at.  i 

It  is  curious  that  Brittany  should  be,  at  the  same 
time,  so  "  religious." 


Fatalism  is  a  dangerous  atmosphere  to  breathe. 
It  is  not  safe  to  cry  Kismet,  unless  you  are  prepared 
to  adjust  the  rest  of  your  life  to  it. 

When  I  spied  the  Englishman  who,  a  few  days 
previously,  had  given  Kergosien  his  much-needed 
castigation,  I  ran  to  him  with  my  congratulations. 
He  was  modest,  surly  even  (as  EngHshmen  are  when 
they  meet  their  fellow  countrymen  abroad),  until  by 
accident  I  mentioned  the  name  of  his  school.  It 
was  the  key  to  his  confidence. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to  now  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  England,"  he  replied.  "  I've  no  use  for  people 
who  treat  horses  and  Germans  as  if  they  weren't 
also  God's  creatures." 

"  Hear,  hear  !  "  interposed  Helen. 

"  And  I've  no  use,  either,  for  people  who  content 
themselves  with  the  lowest  standard  of  cleanliness 
and  sanitation  and  then  fancy  themselves  super- 
civiUsed." 

"  Carried  unanimously,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Then  you're  coming  home  too  ?  "  he  queried 


256  AMONG  FRENCH  FOLK 

Up  to  that  moment  the  idea  hadn't  occurred  to 
us.     It  was  Helen  who  answered. 

"  We  came  out  here  in  the  Spring,  when  the 
world's  sap  was  rising.  Now  it  is  sinking  again, 
and  soon  it  will  drop  to  the  dead  winter  level.  The 
sap  of  our  enthusiasm  for  France  is  falling  too. 
Let's  go." 

Helen  had  spoken 

"  Kismet,"  I  repUed. 


THE  END 


STAMPED  BEjX^^^  ^^TE 


NOV    18  Hi32 

FEB    9   V 

^^^    20,933 
^fP    5    19- 
MAH  IS  1935 

APR    ^D^s^^U 


^fP  I3t938 
APR     8   1939 


V.' 


APR     3    1936  '■"     , 

"^"N  6    1946 
'^^''  ^9  ,93, 


S.-Slj 


A- 


/ 


vs^mx 


D^ 


vV 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


*'. 


